The Long Road to Damascus
by Morrighan
Summary: Abandoned WIP. Snapefic. What happens when a young Death Eater makes a life-changing decision.
1. Koyaanisquatsi

The Lond Road to Damascus THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS 

by Morrighan

  
  


DISCLAIMER: The Harryverse belongs to J K Rowlings, however much I covet it. I have added all manner of weird and wonderful things to it.

CENSOR: R

  
  
  
  
PROLOGUE  
  


Friday February 21, 1975, evening.  
  
There was nothing at all remarkable about the man who entered the Wand and Winkle just before six o'clock. He was short, but not particularly so, stocky and muscular, wearing smart - but cheap - business robes, and carrying a glossy dragonhide briefcase. Just another travelling salesman, and since the Wand and Winkle was situated at the heart of Aberdeen's business district sales reps were hardly a rare sight. 

In fact it is doubtful whether anybody would have noticed even if there had been anything unusual about him. The Wand and Winkle was the only wizarding pub in Aberdeen, on the crossroads between Fine Alley and Turm Inn Alley, and at six on a Friday evening it was packed, as all the workshops, warehouses and factories turned out their staff for the weekend. The man bought a pint of malmsey from the bar, and then glanced round as if looking for a free table. There wasn't one - the pub was full of wizards and witches in their work robes, laughing and talking and generally letting off steam after a hard week's work.

He saw what he was looking for almost at once. The young man (more of a boy, really) was sitting alone at a corner table, an untouched tumbler of nettle wine in front of him, ignoring the chatter around him and absently making a rayed sun out of a ring of spilt butterbeer on the table.

"Mind if I join you?", the stranger said, and sat down, ignoring the unfriendly look the boy gave him. Examined at close quarters, the child was a distinctly unappealing sight. His skin was pale and waxy with a slightly yellowish tinge, his black eyes, permanently wary, darkened into hostility at his approach. His hair was slightly too long, limp and greasy, as though he used too much Sleekeazy and not enough shampoo. The stranger held out his hand. "I'm John Travers, commercial traveller for Gladrags Wizardwear."

The boy gave him a look which said very clearly 'go away and leave me alone', but shook the outstretched hand and answered: "Severus Snape. I'm at Mrs Skower's." Travers nodded. Nothing in his face showed that the boy's name and trade were already known to him.

"Skower's! So you're a bit of a whizz with potions, then." The boy nodded sullenly. "That's quite a coincidence, you know, Severus. A mate o' mine's looking for a potioner to do some freelance work for him on the side. It'd be lucrative work. You wouldn't be interested, by any chance?"

"What kind of work?" The boy was suspicious. Nothing wrong with that, these were suspicious times.

"Oh, just a bit of specialised brewing - it's nothing mysterious. He's after a couple of quite rare preparations you can't find in most potions shops."

"He should try Madam Zabini's in Knockturn Alley. She stocks most of the more unusual stuff. And what she doesn't have, she can make." Travers made no indication of his satisfaction. Knockturn Alley! So his sources had been right. The kid may have been just nineteen, but he had one foot in the shadows already. This was going to be easy. Sweets from a baby.

"Nah - my mate prefers to deal privately." He leaned forward, looked the boy straight in the eye, noting the way he baulked from his gaze. "So, what do you say? Interested?"

"I might be," the boy said warily, "but I'd want to know more first." Gotcha, Travers thought. 

"Like I said, just some of the more unusual brews. Just for private use, and not in large quantities.."

"Such as?"

"Oh, he gave me a list," Travers said, carefully casual. He searched various pockets, finally producing it from a pocket in the sleeve of his robe. The boy took it and read it through. As he read the list his eyebrows shot up so much that they almost met his hairline. Many of the potions were on the Ministry's 'Controlled' list, and several were 'Class A' illegal. But he didn't try to raise the alarm or get his wand out, merely handed the parchment back to Travers. Deliberately misinterpreting the boy's dumbfounded expression, Travers added "He said many of them are a bit on the tricky side - that's why he's willing to pay so high. But maybe he'd be better with someone more experienced." The nettled look on the boy's face told him the shot had hit home. 

"Oh, I can do all these, no sweat," the boy said. "Tell me more." 

* * *

Letter, dated Wednesday February 26, 1975, from Ezekiel Porlock, Head of Security to Electra Nott, sent through the usual channels.

> _Madam, _

> _I received with interest your letter of the 22th inst., and can certainly give you the information you require. _

> _We have investigated your potential recruit, and our findings are as follows. L.M. tells me that his father was Tiberius Caligula Snape (now deceased), of whom you know, and his mother was born Kezia Salomon, of a prominent Israeli pure-blood family (a Benjaminite, according to the genealogies). The subject is the second of three siblings. He has an older brother, Nero, who has recently started his own business in Carne Alley. He is known to pay us a protection fee, but otherwise takes no interest in our activities. There is also a younger sister, Agrippina, currently a sixth-year student at Durmstrang. I.K. does not consider her a possible candidate for us. The subject lives alone and, as far as we can tell, is not in contact with any members of his family. _

> _My own newest student was a close friend of the subject at Hogwarts, and considers him to be a potentially valuable recruit. In addition to his expertise with potions, he has by all accounts an encyclopaedic knowledge of hexes and their uses. He is considered to be intelligent and self-disciplined, but not particularly sociable. As for other qualifications, my contacts at the Ministry tell me that he has a clean Apparitions Licence and no criminal record or outstanding debts. He is an Associate Member of the Institute of Brewers, Potioners and Apothecaries. _

> _There are a few possible difficulties that I would ask you to bear in mind. There is a history of mental instability on the mother's side of the family. The subject has apparently shown no sign of it, but it is well that you be on your guard. There is also by all accounts a marked obsessive streak in his character: again, a potential matter for concern. Most worryingly, my student tells me that the subject had a brief liaison with a Mudblood girl at Hogwarts when he was fourteen. Though he apparently exhibits the proper contempt for outsiders, it may not run as deep as the master requires. If I were you I should certainly check on this before you proceed. _

> _I trust that you will inform me if you and Travers decide to go ahead with this recruitment so that we can make the necessary arrangements. _

> _I hope this is of use to you, and I remain, dear madam, your most attentive servant, _

> _Ezekiel Porlock_

* * *

Sunday January 31, 1976, dawn, somewhere dark.

The boy stood at the entrance of the cavern, tense as a bowstring, adrenalin racing through him. The chamber before him was huge and echoing, hewn out of black rock. A row of torch brackets lined each side, two dotted lines of light in the blackness, but their flickering light merely served to intensify the shadows they created. _Not that there's much to see anyway, _he thought, in a poor attempt at nonchalance. 

He stared hard at the circle of dark figures before him. All robed in black, masked, hooded. The boy wore no mask or hood, and it made him feel naked, vulnerable. That, of course, was what they wanted. It was very cold, and he was nearly shivering. No doubt that, too, was deliberate.

The circle parted, and two figures walked towards him. Electra Nott, John Travers. He recognised them even under the hoods and masks. His mentors.

When they reached him, they bowed to him, and he returned it, a little more awkwardly than he'd meant.

"Ready?" Electra asked, almost silently. He nodded slightly. Travers clapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Go on, then." Travers muttered.

And as they fell into step, he walked hesitantly towards the circle, where for the first time he would meet Lord Voldemort. It seemed to take aeons.

There had been tests, of course, of knowledge, of skill, of reflexes, and other tests more subtle for purposes he could only guess at. If he had not passed them he would not be here now. But then, Electra Nott had been a very thorough teacher, and her pupil extremely keen.

He was within the circle now, and the distance that had seemed so great was now too little. Within a very few steps he was standing before the Dark Lord himself, and prostrating himself before him. 

"Rise." He did, and behind him heard Electra and Travers do the same. He looked carefully at the floor. "So," the voice was a gentle sibilant hiss. "You crave admittance to the circle of the Death Eaters."

"I do."

"Has he passed the assigned tasks?"

"He has." Electra's voice. Flat and emotionless.

"Does he meet all our requirements?"

"He does." Travers, stolidly.

"Good. Look at me, child. Look into my eyes."

The boy looked up, hastily suppressing a moment of dread, and met the Dark Lord's eyes. His gaze was held for a few seconds. "Well enough. Then you are ready to be branded, if you have the nerve."

For the first time, the boy noticed the brazier that stood behind Lord Voldemort, next to a long oak table. It burned with pale green flames. One of the circle broke ranks, and walked to the brazier, carrying a long-handled implement with the symbol of the brand at its end. The boy saw it thrust into the brazier, saw the brief burst of silver sparks as the brand touched the flames. He watched in silence, forcing himself to remain motionless.

The brand was removed from the fire and held out to the Dark Lord. The boy watched him bring out a knife, and press its blade slowly into the pad of his thumb, reaching out so that a single drop of blood fell on the surface of the brand. The blood sizzled on the heat of the surface, loud and strident in the silent hall, like the hissing of a thousand snakes. The head of the brand started to glow a vivid white, and as he watched, green and silver sparks flew from it.

For the first time, he doubted; for the first time could not control his suppressed fear. This would be irrevocable. What was it going to do to him?

"If you wish to withdraw, this is the last point at which you may do so," Lord Voldemort said smoothly, as if he read his thoughts. "If you do not wish to join us, speak now, and we will let you go back. Think carefully: this is the last chance you have to change your mind. Are you willing to continue?"

"Yes," he answered aggressively, and in defiance of all propriety looked the Dark Lord in the face, uninvited. "Only a fool would go back when such things lie ahead. Count me in."

In the silence that followed he could almost feel Electra and Travers exchanging glances behind him, and the sudden stillness of the Death Eaters in the circle around them. The Dark Lord held his gaze with unblinking intensity, and he could feel his heart thumping wildly. _Well that was stupid, wasn't it, Severus?_ he thought to himself.

And then, into the silence, Lord Voldemort started to laugh.

"Most impressive. We can surely expect great things of this one, Madam Nott. Let him be branded."

Electra and Travers led him to the table, and sat him down in the only chair, at the table's head. Electra rolled up his left sleeve to the elbow, and she and Travers held his arm flat to the table, palm upwards, exposing the soft, pale skin on the underside of the forearm.

The boy watched nervously as the Death Eater who held the brand moved forwards, until he held the glowing thing poised above his forearm. _If you scream or faint or anything I'll never speak to you again_, he told himself fiercely. He set his teeth firmly together, just as the man thrust the brand down onto his bare skin.

The white-hot metal of the Dark Lord's symbol bit painfully into the soft skin. The boy gave a cry, quickly stifled. He tried to flinch away from the heat, but Electra and Travers were holding his arm so firmly that it barely moved.

The brand was pressed deeper, and the sinews and muscles of the arm burned like fire. He clenched the muscles of his jaw more tightly. _I've had worse_, he reminded himself. When he'd been thirteen he'd had a scrap with Nero, who had ended the fight triumphantly by throwing him into the fireplace. _Now that was pain; this is a mild inconvenience_, he tried to tell himself, but he couldn't make himself believe it, because that had been then, and this was very much now. His arm was shaking uncontrollably now, and he was dimly aware that his mentors had tightened their grip on the wrist and elbow.

The brand was still pressed into his arm, still cutting down into the flesh. He shut his eyes. It would surely - 

As the brand hit bone, fire flooded through him, body, soul and mind. For an instant he _was_ the brand. He would have screamed now if he could, but he could not even breathe as the heat of the brand consumed him.

He felt the brand withdraw, and as if a light had been extinguished the pain vanished. He felt his mentors release his arm, and let himself open his eyes to stare blankly at the dark mark on his forearm. He was - everything felt - different. Clearer. He could see clearly around him, in spite of the dark, and if the hall was still bitterly cold he could no longer feel it. He carried on staring at the dark symbol on his arm, until some slight sound behind him reminded him that the ritual was as yet uncompleted.

The boy rose stiffly from the chair, cautiously unclenching his aching jaw muscles. He turned cautiously to the Dark Lord and made obeisance to him.

"You are now a servant of Lord Voldemort, and a part of the fellowship of the Death Eaters. Welcome. I trust you will serve my cause faithfully."

The boy prostrated himself on the floor before his new master, and thanked him with an unfeigned sincerity, before taking his place in the circle among his new colleagues.

* * *

"You did it very well, you know. You impressed him," Electra said to him afterwards. "That's not necessarily a good thing."

"Oh?" He was startled.

"You've caught his attention. He'll be watching you now. I hope you can carry on impressing him."

The boy smirked, and it was not a nice smile. "If I can, I will."

In the years to come some of his comrades came to call him 'the perfect Death Eater'. Most of them never discovered how wrong they were.

  
  
  
  
  
  


PART 1: Koyaanisqatsi   
  


Thursday November 27, 1980, 11PM. McKinnon's Cafè, Fine Alley, Aberdeen.

Ailsa McKinnon leant against her sitting room wall, wondering whether the scene before her would go away if she closed her eyes. She did not try it: she suspected that if she did something terrible would happen. _They're going to kill us, _she thought dazedly, _George and me and the bairn. _She put one of her hands on her stomach, and felt her unborn baby kick._ Hush, Flora, keep still, and everything will be all right. We're just waiting for the Hit Wizards to come and rescue us. Everything will be fine. We'll be okay._

How had it come to this? It had been such an ordinary day. The café had been busy, as usual, with the usual crowd of workers from the nearby businesses and workshops, craftsmen talking shop, secretaries swapping gossip, salesmen comparing sales targets. Everyone was talking as though You-Know-Who couldn't touch them. It was as if by pretending everything was normal that the chaos and disorder of the world would magically vanish. Until tonight she and George had been able to connive in the deception. But not now, oh, not now.

It had been a normal evening, too. They'd talked over dinner about the baby, made plans for the future: where the nursery would be, how they would be able to look after her and carry on running the café, which of them she would look like. They'd fallen to arguing about possible names for the child when she came (they knew it would be a girl). George had a superstitious fear of giving a child a name before its birth; Ailsa had privately already named her: Flora, for her grandmother. A sweet name, and it felt right.

She'd gone to bed early, tired out by the day's work, and by the extra weight on her feet, and slept like the dead, while George had stayed up to do the café's accounts, when she'd been awoken suddenly by a loud crash from the living room.

She'd looked up from the bed to see a robed, masked figure aiming a wand at her. That had cleared her head quickly enough, and she had reached instinctively for her own wand on the bedside table, just as a second masked figure apparated beside her, its gloved hand closing firmly about her wrist, as it casually pocketed her wand with its other hand.

"Bring her through," the first figure had said tersely. Ailsa had noticed with a jolt that it was a woman's voice, and thought irrelevantly: _they sent a woman? Does the Dark Lord observe the niceties when waking women at midnight, then?_

The Death Eater who stood next to her had pulled her roughly out of bed, and followed her out of the room, his wand held to the side of her head, his arm crooked around her throat, half choking her. Everything happened with a kind of awful clarity. She noticed the quiet hissing of his breathing, the way he was forced to shorten his steps to accommodate her pregnant waddle. She could feel the leanness of the arm around her neck, the way the sinews cut into her throat even through the thick robe, and the faint chemical smell that hung about him, as though he worked in an apothecary's shop.

He had released her in the doorway of the sitting room, carefully keeping her covered with his wand. "Stay there. Don't move." His voice was cold and passionless. 

And so here she was, watching her life spin out of control as she leant against the wall, forcing down the scream that wanted to escape her. 

Their tiny sitting room looked as though a whirlwind had swept through it. The writing desk in the corner had been overturned, and one of the masked figures, a short squat figure, was flicking methodically through the papers in it, crouched on his haunches beside the mess. The chair that normally stood beside it was also on its side, one leg wrenched off. The remains of a vase lay shattered in the hearth, and the freesias that had filled it had been scattered amid the broken china. She itched to go and sweep up the broken pieces of china, as if by that simple action she could restore some sense of order and balance to her invaded world. 

There were four of them. Four. To kill a pregnant woman and a crippled man. _Cowards_. 

The man who had woken her, the apothecary, was standing in the doorway to the sitting room, blocking the room's only exit. His wand was still pointed at her, even though she was unarmed and, at eight months pregnant, no threat to anyone. The crouching figure discarded the papers and stood up, bringing his wand out. He was the shortest of the four, but thickset and muscular with huge fists - a Quidditch Beater's build, Ailsa thought. The woman was standing by the fireplace, close to another man, the tallest of the four, who hung back slightly. All of them had their wands out, and aimed at her husband, George McKinnon, who was standing in the middle of the room, leaning heavily on his crutches, his face chalk white and terrified as he stared from one to another of the creatures who had taken over their world.

"Ailsa! Are you okay? They haven't hurt you, have they?" His voice was panicky.

She assured him that she was fine, wondering how she could sound so calm.

"Silence." That was the woman. "Are you expecting any visitors this evening? Any disturbances?"

"N-no," George had quavered.

"Are you sure?" The apothecary, his voice smooth and suave.

"No. There's nobody."

The Beater laughed. "What's a couple more corpses between friends, anyway? It's all the same to us."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't say that at all," the apothecary said. There was a note of sickening enjoyment in his voice that made Ailsa shudder.

"What do you want from us? We're no threat to you."

"No? Yet little birds have been telling us that you are in with the Dumbledore crowd."

She'd watched her husband swallow nervously. _Stay calm, George_, she had implored silently. _Don't let them under your skin_. He swallowed nervously again, but said nothing.

"Perhaps you'd care to tell us about it, Mr McKinnon." That had been the woman again.

She'd watched him take a deep breath, and lean more heavily than ever on his crutches. "I'm saying nothing," he said, with a kind of pathetic bravado.

_Oh George, don't be so stupid. Prevaricate, play for time, tell them half-truths. Anything to buy us time._

"Very well. _Crucio._"

She watched the crutches slip from his hands, and he fell, awkwardly, hitting his head against the desk. He was screaming, writhing on the floor. Ailsa started towards him, and the apothecary shoved her roughly back towards the wall, jolting all the breath out of her. _Someone must hear_, she thought desperately as she gasped for breath. _There must be someone out there._ _Someone who can help. _But there wouldn't be. Fine Alley was the industrial area of Aberdeen, and only a handful of people lived there after office hours. None of them near the McKinnons' café. 

The woman stopped the curse; George stayed where he had fallen, shaking uncontrollably, and looked up at Ailsa with tears in his eyes. She'd looked back down at him, willing him to be brave, knowing that it would probably be futile. 

"So. How about telling us about Dumbledore, then?" That had been the Beater. 

"'S nothing to tell," he said, shakily. "He's a headmaster, not an Auror."

"Come now, Mr McKinnon. You know better than that. We _know_ you're passing him information, and we have a pretty good idea what else you're up to. It wouldn't hurt to tell us a few things. Wouldn't you rather have a quick death than a slow one?"

"I don't know anything. Nothing at all."

The woman had nodded her head towards the fourth member of the party, and he'd hesitated, and then stepped forwards, towards Ailsa. The apothecary stepped away from her, just as the fourth man said the single word: "_Imperio._"

It felt strange; it felt very strange. Some part of her mind was still watching as she obeyed the his instructions. The apothecary handed her back her wand, and she took it, weighing it in her hand, before speaking the single word "_Crucio_", and watching as her husband began to scream again. She could feel some part of her mind bewildered, aware that something was wrong, but it was powerless - most of her mind simply followed the instructions, couldn't, or wouldn't disobey. Just obey orders and everything will be fine. 

And it would have been fine, until he lowered his wand and the world suddenly became real again. George was lying on the floor, in a curious twisted position, trembling. Blood was pouring from his nose and ears, and he was looking at her with hollow, horrified eyes. Accusing eyes.

"Ailsa?" he'd whispered, and she'd covered her face with her hands and started to cry, tried to turn away from him. "It's okay, Ailsa, I love you. I know it's not your fault." He grasped his crutches, and somehow forced himself onto his feet, even though he was still pale and shaking. He nearly collapsed as he stood up, and had to put all his weight on the battered wooden crutches to keep himself upright.

"So are you going to tell us about Dumbledore, then?" The apothecary, standing in the doorway again.

"Never!" he shouted. He was crying. "Damn you, what have you done to us? Leave us alone, we'll tell you nothing." 

"Maybe you'd like us to start torturing your wife, then. I'm sure that would jog your memory. We could even get _you_ to do it for us," the Beater taunted him.

"Damn you!" he shouted again, although there were still tears running down his face. He grabbed one of his crutches with both hands and swung it at the Beater like a club. The Beater evaded it easily and then casually pulled the crutch out of his hands. His withered legs, unable to support his weight, gave way under him, and he collapsed onto the floor again. The Beater kicked out viciously at his ribs.

She felt the apothecary grab her by her hair and pull her forward until she was standing almost over him. "Tell us, McKinnon, or I swear I shall torture your wife." He laughed, a hollow, snide laugh. "I expect it will be most instructive: nobody's ever researched the effect of the Cruciatus curse on foetuses before."

"No!" Ailsa would have given anything to unsay the word, to keep her fear hidden from her tormentors, and more importantly from her husband. _Oh, no. No_. _Oh my child, I'm so sorry._

George met her eyes again, and there was defeat in them, and bitterness, and a terrible darkness she'd never thought she'd see there. She felt as though some deep part of her had just died. "Okay. I'll talk," he said dully.

And he had talked: told them everything he knew, in a dead, miserable voice that made Ailsa's heart ache, and she wept silently for him as he told all their carefully buried secrets. _We mustn't blame him, Flora. He loves us. He doesn't want to see you hurt._ The baby moved restlessly inside her, and she put her hand on her stomach again. _Keep still, little one. __Don't be afraid. Everything will be all right. The Hit Wizards will come and rescue us. Everything will be all right. _She repeated it like a mantra but it didn't seem to help. _Everything will be all right. _

George's voice was droning away: she didn't want to hear it, tried to force her attention elsewhere, and it fell on their four tormentors. _When the Hit Wizards arrive, they'll want to know who they are. They'll need descriptions._

_The woman. She seems to be in charge. How tall? Six foot? No, less - but not much less. She's English, but Northern, I think. Maybe Lancashire. She doesn't talk like a young woman, but she's not old. Forties, fifties maybe. She speaks like she expects to be obeyed._

_The Beater. He's my height, so five-eight, but very muscular. He walks around in a kind of half-crouch, like he's ready to attack at any possible moment. He talks like a Londoner._

_The apothecary - Six foot tall, very thin, with a cold voice. He's got this weird stalking walk. And that smell, like an apothecary's shop. I'm sure I've seen him before._

_And there's the other one, the one who made me- No. Don't think about that. Look at him. Describe him. _She looked more closely at him, trying not to hear her husband. _He's the tallest -- much taller than the others, he slouches slightly. He acts like an outsider. _It was true. The other three had acted like a long-established team, instinctively picking up each others' cues. But he wasn't part of it - a cat on strange territory. He wasn't even English - she remembered the voice that had given her instructions in her head, and it had sounded East European - Russian, or possibly Polish.

She turned her attention back to the apothecary. _Where have I seen him before? He doesn't work at West's or Cauldwell and Smethley. Where else. Maybe a hospital or a potions workshop. Potions- Oh my God, I know him, I know who he is._

She looked at him again, and it was so clear, now that she could see it. He worked just round the corner from the café, at Skowers on Turm Inn Alley - something in Research and Development, she thought. She remembered that he'd even come into the café that lunchtime to buy a drink and a sandwich. _To see the lie of the land, no doubt. _

Other memories. He'd been in George's year at Hogwarts, in Slytherin, a year above her own. He was part of Lestrange's crowd, and kept getting into fights with Sirius Black and James Potter. She still couldn't remember his name, but when the Hit Wizards came, they'd be able to find it out. It gave her a fragile kind of confidence, knowing that she had something to tell them.

The sudden silence forced her attention back to George and his tormentors. 

"And is there nothing else?"

"No. Nothing."

"Sure?"

"Yes." Poor thing, he sounded desperate. If there was only something she could do-

"Perhaps this might jog your memory." The Beater raised his wand again. "_Crucio._"

_No. Not again. Haven't you done enough to him?_ She moved impulsively towards him, and this time the apothecary did not stop her. George was not screaming any more, but convulsing, shuddering, and as she reached him when he grew still, and she watched his face pale from a flushed red to dull grey.

"Looks like it didn't work," the apothecary remarked.

"Weak ticker," the Beater agreed. He kicked out again, this time at George's head, and Ailsa heard the dull snapping sound as it broke his neck. Ailsa stared down at his body, feeling empty and drained and hopeless. 

"Forget him. We've still got another one here." The woman was facing her, now, looking straight into her eyes. "And perhaps _you_ know something your husband forgot to tell us."

She faced Ailsa across George's body. Her voice was low and soft, almost intimate. "So what do you know?" 

Ailsa said nothing. The men were also silent, as if by some unspoken agreement they had decided to leave her to their leader.

"Tell me. It'll make things easy for you. We might even let you live." The woman's voice was deceptively gentle.

Another silence. Ailsa looked down at George, the pitiful broken body, and remembered his compassion, his gentleness and his humour, and felt suddenly calm and strong. _This is for you, George_. She looked straight up into the eyes of the tall woman facing her and began to speak. 

"All I know, that you do not, is the difference between right and wrong. Torture me, kill me if you like, it doesn't matter, because I will still be a greater person than you - however poor or low-born I am. Even a happier person, because I have done the best I can for those around me. I have loved, and have been loved, I have given generously, and others have given to me. What is right is important to me, more important than danger or pain."

"These are tired cliches," said the woman, sounding bored.

Ailsa turned to the three men. The outsider turned away to avoid her gaze, looked out of the window, as one might turn from an embarrassing beggar. "And you. How can you do these things and live with yourselves? How can you look the world in the eye, knowing what you are? Give it up, for your own sakes. Nobody is forcing you to do evil, or to be evil, except yourselves-"

The apothecary interrupted her first, his voice low and angry. "You dare say another word - !"

The beater laughed, unworried. "Keep your breath to cool your porridge, girlie. Not that you'll be needing it much longer."

The outsider interrupted from beside the window. "Hit Wizard patrol. Four men. They're just passing the Wand and Winkle, coming this way."

The woman turned and looked towards the window, and Ailsa grabbed the sudden, unexpected chance. With a wild, uncoordinated swipe she knocked the woman's wand out of her hand and ran for the door.

She was within two paces of it when the apothecary neatly kicked her feet from underneath her. She fell heavily, sideways, the fall knocking the breath out of her.

"Just get rid of the little cow and let's get out of here." the apothecary said harshly.

"Yes." The woman picked up her wand calmly as the apothecary hauled Ailsa roughly to her feet, and she watched in disbelief the last moments of her life. It all happened so slowly - the woman approaching her, wand outstretched, the three men watching silently, the wand - the tip of the wand coming to rest against her swollen stomach, and the words, the two softly-spoken words that she knew would kill her.

"_Avada Kedavra._"

For an instant, there was a flash of blinding brilliance - light and motion and sound and pain - and the scene around her shone with frightening vividness, burning itself on her retina. And yet by some miracle, in the millisecond before the curse struck she had time to think perfectly clearly: _I'm sorry, Flora. I love you. _

And then there was nothing.__

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


PERPETRATOR'S NOTE:`

Reposted to take advantage of the new chaptering system, with Prologue & Part 1 combined. It means that I've had to lose the reviews I originally got for Part 1 (though I've kept copies of them, & continue to be eternally grateful for them.)

This all started way, way back when I made the mistake of writing down a rather nifty idea for the conversation between Snape and Dumbledore when Snape switches sides. It got a bit out of hand & before I knew where I was I had about 50 pages of incomplete and rather sketchy Snapefic. Then the thing got into difficulties, and I started another fic (_Staff Meeting_) by way of distraction, and then another one, and another one... Still, at least this one's now going somewhere. 

I've corrected the date thing since the 1st posting - for which many thanks to Doc Cornelius. 

A few notes:

Electra Nott is my invention - the Nott in GoF is her brother. Electra, of course, was the woman in Greek mythology who incited her brother Orestes to kill their mother and her lover in revenge for murdering their father (which was partly in revenge for his having killed Electra's older sister). Sounds like a proper Slytherin family to me.

The name Kezia (Snape's ma) was the name of one of Job's 3 daughters in the Bible. (Be grateful: I could have called her Jemima or Kerenhappuch instead.) The other Snapes are all Roman Emperors, except Agrippina, who was an Emperor's wife. There are no prizes for guessing what kind of business Nero Snape owns. __

The woman, the Beater, the apothecary and the outsider are, respectively, Electra Nott, Travers, Snape and Karkaroff, in case I've been too confusing. It's not exactly relevant any more, but Ailsa and George McKinnon were a Gryffindor and a Ravenclaw respectively. I can't write any of the Scots accents but they're supposed to be Scottish.

Oh, and if I've got it right, Koyaanisqatsi is the Navajo word meaning 'world out of balance'.   
  
  



	2. The Eyes of the Innocent

THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS, Chapter 2 THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS 

by Morrighan 

  
  


DISCLAIMER: The Harryverse belongs to J K Rowlings, however much I covet it. I have added a few people to it, and quite a lot of places.

CENSOR: R

  
  
  
  
  
  
PART 2: The eyes of the innocent 

_'Men stumble on the truth from time to time, but most pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing has happened'_ (Sir Winston Churchill) 

  
  


Friday 28 November, 1980, 1.00 AM, An Cruachan, Scotland.

You don't sleep, the night after a kill.

It was now half an hour since he had apparated back from Fine Alley, half an hour since the Hit Wizards had forced the door of the already-violated café to find it empty and ruined, had stared at the two corpses amid the wreckage, and the four fading shadows of the disapparating Death Eaters. 

Severus Snape had gone straight home, and as he always did, he had gone to his workshop, seeking some way to while away the many minutes until dawn. The adrenalin that had propelled him smoothly through the previous hours still lurked in his veins, making his heart race and his movements unsteady, and sleep would be impossible until it was pacified.

The workshop was freezing cold, and tiny - a mere nine foot square, a lean-to shack built onto the back of an old barn. The walls had been bare stone, like the floor, but were now coated with new whitewash; the ceiling consisted of the rafters and batons of the slate-tiled roof. The equipment was good, and well maintained, chosen and tended with a care he gave only to this tiny room. It was not just a laboratory, this shack, but a refuge, an escape from the world outside.

He moved restlessly about the workshop, testing various potions that didn't need checking, oiling equipment that had been oiled only a week before, wiping down surfaces and cleaning cupboards. All simple, unnecessary tasks. Time-consuming chores.

If the Dark Lord had asked anything of him it would have been easy, but it appeared there was no need of potions at present. Nothing beyond the six simmering cauldrons that stood on the centre of the workbench, and they needed only to be left alone. He crouched down and opened the cupboard under the workbench, and pulled out an old wooden box full of rolls of parchment - logs of failed experiments and abandoned projects, jottings of vague ideas never developed and recipes never tried. He selected a scroll: an unsuccessful attempt at a poison and antidote, and unrolled it, his movements awkward and unsteady.

Dealing with the McKinnons had been a simple enough affair, so basic that not even a fool like Karkaroff could mess it up. Snape had not even taken a particularly active part in the raid, but it seemed to make no difference: he was still too keyed up - too alert - even to think about sleeping. After five years of such work, he would have expected the surge of adrenalin to have worn off, but it never had. Visions of the raid kept whirling through his head, blurring into each other in a discordant whirl of images. His hands were shaking slightly as he smoothed out the scroll, with its neat records of temperatures, pHs and thaumic levels, and let his eye travel slowly down the columns of figures, looking for some anomaly that would explain where he had gone wrong. 

Electra would be reporting back to the Dark Lord by now. It had been a productive night's work - they'd got enough from McKinnon to keep several groups busy for months, including the names of five of Dumbledore's vigilantes. He reeled them off in his head: Tulip Mortlake, Jack Bones, Siegfried Yaffle, Peninnah Abbott, and Mundungus Fletcher. He smiled grimly. The Dark Lord would pick them off one by one like September apples, crushing them until their secrets ran out like juice. 

He realised that he'd lost his place on the scroll, and turned back to it with renewed attention, but his mind drifted persistently back to the night's work. In exasperation he let go of the scroll and it sprang back into a tight roll, rocking backwards and forwards on the bare workbench as he watched it restlessly, resisting the impulse to bring his fist down and squash it flat. When it came to a standstill he unrolled it again, placing a stone on each corner to hold it down, and tried to concentrate once more on the columns of figures.

Funny, how the McKinnon woman's words kept coming back to him. "How can you do these things...?" _Irritating woman_, he thought contemptuously, trying to forget how the words had got under his skin. Only an utter neophyte paid attention to his victims' ramblings. The last man to try that on him had been screaming in pain before he'd been able to finish the sentence.

He turned his attention back to the scroll again, but Ailsa McKinnon's face kept drifting into his mind, however much he stared at the parchment.

She'd looked so calm, even though she was facing her death. Like an angel.

He shook his head vigorously to dispel the thought, fulminating at his treacherous mind. He pulled the parchment impatiently from under the stones weighing it down, and thrust it back into the cupboard with the rest of his papers, locking the door.

Useless. He'd have to find some other way to while away the night.

He kept a pack of old playing cards in one of the cupboards - Muggle playing cards with crude symbols and unmoving pictures that had to be shuffled by hand. They had been left in the old barn before he made it his home, and he'd never got round to replacing them with a proper pack. He took them from their box and dealt them out on the workbench: seven stacks of three cards, face up. He stared down at them vacantly for a moment, and then began to play, mentally adding up the face values of the cards, immersing himself in the mechanics of the simple game as he dealt a fourth row of cards on top of them, and then removed three cards from the bottom of the second and fifth stacks before dealing again.

The tumult of images spinning through his mind gradually calmed and faded as he played on, diminishing steadily, until finally there was nothing left but the motionless faces of the playing cards, who neither questioned nor reproached him.

When each game ended he gathered the cards up immediately, shuffled quickly, and dealt again. He carried on playing until dawn.

* * *

The Skowers workshop and offices stood towards the southern end of Turm Inn Alley, an undistinctive building, made of the same dark granite as the workshops around it. It was one of the taller offices on the street, and the upper two floors had been added only nine years before. The Skower family had specialised in cleaning potions for over four hundred years, but for most of that time they had remained in contented obscurity, trading from their homes or by owl order. It was only in the last thirty years - under the leadership of Mrs Laburnum Skower - that a quiet family business had been turned into an international corporation. 

It was a quarter past eight when Billy MacPherson apparated outside the front steps of the Skowers building, slightly relieved to find that all of him had made the journey successfully. It was only a year that he'd gained his Apparition Licence (on the fourth attempt), and splinching was still a constant fear, particularly on the daily commute from Thurso, where he lived with his brother's family, to Aberdeen. 

Billy was only twenty, still a newcomer at Skowers, which remained an alien and rather ridiculous world to him. He was short and plump, looking much younger than his twenty years, his face disfigured by round spectacles, and topped with mousy brown hair that was as curly as a collection of fine springs. He was universally underestimated, though it never seemed to trouble him. At school he had been the most intelligent student to have come out of Hufflepuff in over thirty years; at Skowers, he had survived working for Severus Snape for nearly a year and a half so far. Such facts spoke for themselves.

He clattered clumsily up the stairs, (nearly tripping over the end of his scarf,) and into the plush reception area. "Morning, Gertie," he called to the girl at the reception desk.

"Hi, Billy." The receptionist, Gertrude Mockridge, looked up from her copy of Witch Weekly, and flashed him a winning smile. "Looking forward to another day with our Mr Snake?"

Billy smiled, a touch ruefully. "Well... He isn't actually as bad as you think, not mostly... Though I won't exactly be unhappy come five o'clock today." He hesitated, colouring slightly, and then said, "You want to come for a drink when we finish?"

Her smile became even brighter. "I'd love to. Quarter past five do you?"

"Splendidly. I'll meet you here." Billy smiled back, dazzled. He was young and in love, and the world was perfect.

"Lovely. Got some parcels for the Snake. You want to take them down, save me a trip?"

Billy rose chivalrously to the occasion, and descended the stairs burdened with five bulky packages, his own bag, the wilful scarf and an umbrella. He walked slowly and carefully, taking pains not to drop anything, pausing at each landing to adjust the wobbly fifth parcel, and push the scarf out of the way.

The Research and Development Department had been relegated to the lowest floor of the Skowers building, three floors below ground level. There were only two rooms, the Laboratory itself and a small and dingy cloakroom opposite which Snape had commandeered as a storeroom. When Billy pushed open the door of the latter it was in its usual cluttered state, with crates and barrels lining the walls. He dumped the parcels, bag and umbrella on top of a barrel of rabbit's blood with a sigh of relief, and hung up his cloak and scarf, putting on a lab robe and dragonhide gloves. He forced his errant hair inside his hat again, checked his reflection in the cracked mirror, and then picked up the parcels again, and went through into the lab opposite.

The Research and Development Laboratory always gave Billy the creeps. It was as cold and damp as a morgue, and about as welcoming, the warm light of the torches totally eclipsed by the blue flames which heated the cauldrons, casting their cold shadows about the walls like faded wraiths. There was a fireplace, but its heat never seemed to warm the room. The marble-topped workbenches which edged the room were always freezing to the touch, cold and smooth as old ice. 

Snape was already there, at the furthest end of the room, checking the simmering cauldrons. Along the furthest wall were three narrow troughs filled with pale blue flames, the cauldrons suspended over them on iron chains. One of the potions had exploded in the night: the wall above it was scorched, and the cauldrons each side of it were issuing acrid black smoke. Billy noticed with relief that the one at the end of the row was still giving off pale green steam, as it should. It was the first project he had been let loose alone on: just a basic handwash, nothing complex, but it was his baby, his ewe lamb. 

Billy dumped the five parcels down on the nearest work bench. "Morning, Mr Snape, sir. I've brought some parcels from reception for you."

"Book them in, will you?" Snape said without turning round, detaching the half-melted cauldron from the chains that held it. "When you've done that I need a new batch of the Cauldron Cleaner to replace this lot. And we'll need a fresh batch of lye before the day is out. Use the oak ash, not the pine, and see that you filter it properly."

Billy nodded and set to work, attacking the parcels with a pocket knife and sorting out the contents. He watched his boss covertly as he worked, relieved that the exploded cauldron had not made him lose his temper. 

He'd got used to working in silence. Most days Snape ignored him, and apart from issuing occasional terse instructions just left him to get on with things. Snape himself would work fast and furiously, snapping at anyone who disturbed him. Billy was spared the worst of his tongue because he was thorough and careful, and knew his job. But there were still days when nobody could do anything right, and Snape would rage and storm while Billy checked all his work extra carefully and resisted the temptation to hide under the workbench. Yesterday had been one of those days, but - thank heavens! - today the storm seemed to have blown itself out. 

Billy had always thought his boss would actually be quite a nice man if he didn't work himself so hard. 

A bell rang from the fireplace, and Billy turned to see Gertrude's head amongst the flames. "Call for you, Mr Snape. Simeon Whitby from Corydon Ceramics."

"Get rid of him, Mockridge. Tell him I've emigrated - whatever excuse you usually use. I don't need anything."

She ignored this. "I'll put him through," and few seconds later her face was replaced by Simeon Whitby's balding head. 

"Good to see you, Severus. How are you keeping?" Billy could hear the undertone of nervousness in his voice.

"What do you want, Whitby?" Snape said sharply. Nothing was calculated to annoy him quicker than the use of his first name.

Whitby looked slightly uncomfortable. "Actually this is just a courtesy call, to see if there's anything you need."

"Nothing at present. I'll contact you when I do." He raised his wand to break the connection, but Whitby interrupted.

"Can I take this opportunity to send you a free sample of our new self-heating crucible? They revolutionise the whole concept of alchemy. I'm sure you'll find them indispens - "

Even bent over his work, Billy could hear Snape gritting his teeth. "No thank you. If I wanted any of your inferior and overpriced products I would ask for them." Whitby started to speak again, but Snape cut through his words with sarcastic politeness. "Thank you for your time, Mr Whitby. Goodbye."

He pointed his wand at the bell over the fireplace and muttered "_Finite_". Simeon Whitby's face vanished.

Billy remembered with chagrin that it had taken him over fifteen minutes to get rid of his last sales rep, much to Snape's contempt. _Maybe I should take lessons in sarcasm from him_, he thought wryly, as he finished selecting the ingredients for the new batch of Cauldron Cleaner and began to prepare them. _But then again, perhaps not. _He carried on working in silence.

* * *

News of the previous night's killing did not reach the basement of Skowers until Billy returned to the lab after lunch (Snape rarely took a lunch break), looking pale and upset.

"You've not heard the news, Mr Snape? It's all over town - I only found out just now. There's been another killing - here, in Aberdeen."

Snape looked up and gave him an irritated look. He was in the middle of heating an alembic full of the new Cauldron Cleaner. Instead of the usual angled 'beak' it had a complex network of glass tubing attached to its neck, long glass pipes leading to various glass bulbs. In deference to the night's explosion, the fire underneath it was extremely small. "What's happened?" he asked, his voice harsh and metallic. 

"It was the McKinnons, them who kept the café on Fine Alley. They were murdered by the Death Eaters, last night. They were tortured." He shuddered, and looked up at Snape helplessly, almost imploringly. "It's not right - there's no justice in the world. What did they ever do to hurt anyone?"

Snape shrugged. Billy did not notice him tense suddenly as he studied the equipment in front of him, reaching out to measure the temperature with his wand, writing the figure down on a nearby chart.

Billy carried on speaking, more to himself than to his boss, into an icy silence he didn't seem to notice. "Ailsa McKinnon was my sister-in-law's cousin - I met her and George at my brother's wedding. They were really nice people... They didn't deserve to die like that, they really didn't. I've seen them lots since I've been working here. I always visit - visited them Wednesday lunch times, but I couldn't go this week 'cos we were too busy. I'll never see them again, now. It's evil - it's wrong. There must be something that can be done, something _we_ can do to stop it."

Snape measured the temperature a second time, wondering whether he could justify telling the boy to shut up, but the moment the tip of his wand touched the bulb the entire apparatus exploded - alembic, tubing and Cauldron Cleaner - showering him with burning liquid and shards of glass. "Do you have to talk so much?" he snarled at Billy, and Billy flinched as if he'd been slapped. Snape turned away and strode towards the sink to wash the hot fluid off his face. The flames underneath the broken alembic flared brightly where the explosive liquid had flooded into it, and Billy rushed over to extinguish it, shocked into miserable silence by his boss's words.

Snape pulled a splinter of glass roughly from his cheek. His face was still stinging from the hot liquid, and there was blood seeping from another cut across his forehead_. _"MacPherson, of all the bloody _stupid_ moments to distract me - "he began angrily.__

It was at that moment that the door opened and Madam Skower entered the laboratory.__

Snape took a deep breath and let it out slowly, choking down the anger that was welling up in him. _This is all I need_, he thought bitterly. _Skower will have my head if I scare off _another lab technician.

"Good afternoon, Madam Skower," he said with all the dignity he could manage. "What can we do for you?" 

Laburnum Skower was, by birth, a member of the infamous Jigger clan (her brother Arsenius had taught Snape potions at Hogwarts). Somewhere in the background there was a Mr Skower, who actually owned the company, but nobody had ever seen him. It was Madam Skower who ran the business, made the decisions, bullied the staff, terrified the creditors. 

In person she was less than impressive: short and stout with broad shoulders and a gravity-defying hairstyle with what looked like a bunch of grapes fastened to it. When she spoke, it was with a mannish contralto voice, and a manner that suggested that what you said had better be worth hearing, She had short, stubby fingers armoured with rings, and rumour, probably correctly, alleged that she had a punch like a battering ram.

Madam Skower looked round the laboratory, her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the broken alembic and charred ceiling above it. Her glance dwelt a moment on his face, still reddened and bleeding from the exploding potion, and he held her gaze steadily, making no effort to explain his battered appearance or wipe the trickles of blood away. "Ah, Mr Snape," she said with heavy irony, "I trust everything is running smoothly." 

Snape squashed down the temptation to inform her curtly that she wasn't wearing a lab robe, and went to inspect the damage from the exploded potion. Billy, still sweeping up pieces of broken glassware, ducked out of his way with his head down, not meeting his eye. _Idiot boy_, Snape thought_._

"As you see," he said with iron control, "we are currently experiencing technical difficulties." Billy finished wiping down the workbench and then went out into the cloakroom. He didn't come back in.

Madam Skower walked over and examined the remainder of the wreckage. "Ah. I see the Cauldron Cleaner is causing you problems. You haven't forgotten, I trust, that we start manufacturing it at the start of February? I hope it will be ready by then."

"So do I. The deadline we were given was somewhat unrealistic," Snape said, glancing at the scorch marks on the ceiling.

"That's not what I was hoping to hear. It _must_ be ready." She subjected him to a piercing stare for a moment. "I have no room here for staff who cannot fulfill their commitments. Remember that." She started walking towards the door, and opened it. She was halfway through it when she looked back and spoke again. "There's just one other thing, Mr Snape," she said. "If I find you bullying your assistant - or any of my other staff - again, I will be most displeased. Do you understand?"

Snape nodded brusquely, and she turned and left the laboratory.

Billy came back a few minutes later, looking calmer, but still subdued.

"My apologies, MacPherson," Snape said. His voice sounded only slightly strained. "I didn't intend to upset you. I was just a little startled by the explosion."

"'Sokay," Billy said awkwardly, wrong-footed by the unexpected apology. "Do you want me to set the test up again?"

Snape answered that no, he would do it, and restarted the fire. He went to the glass cupboard to find a fresh set of glassware. He got out a fresh alembic and used a charm to blow the dust off it, and then got out the spare set of distillation tubing. He inspected it, dissatisfied, noting with annoyance that one of the glass bulbs at its tip had broken off.

"What idiot put a set of broken tubing back in the cupboard?" he asked Billy angrily. 

"I don't know. We haven't used that set for months, have we?"

"Just when we need the damned thing... This needs to be done today. MacPherson, you'll have to go to Gaffers and get two replacement sets." He looked down at the broken glass tubes in front of him. "No, forget that - I'll go. I want a word with them about their Unbreakable Charms." Billy grimaced. It didn't take a genius to guess what kind of word that would be. "_You_ need to set up the tests for the Laundry Solution before I get back. It may have escaped your notice, but we have a lot to do." 

* * *

The street was quiet under the pale winter sunshine, and Snape found himself blinking in the unaccustomed light as he descended the steps of the Skowers building. The street was almost deserted: a pair of businesswizards having a hushed conversation opposite, in the doorway of the Kemble Cauldrons workshop, a couple of sales reps travelling from door to door, an overall-clad witch with a toolkit emerging from the watchmakers down the road. He ignored them all as he headed up the hill to Gaffers Glassware.

Gaffers was at the far end of Turm Inn Alley, past the crossroads with Fine Alley. He glanced down towards the McKinnons' Café as he passed the crossroads. The café was cordoned off, and a number of Hit Wizards were standing outside it. They were too far away to be seen clearly, and he wondered idly if one of them was his sister, Agrippina. He sneered silently at the thought. Really, if they were reduced to employing the likes of Aggie there was absolutely no hope for them. 

As always, when he thought of Agrippina, his hand went to the four thick horizontal scars on the left side of his neck - the relics of a blazing row ten years ago. Four livid red lines, puffy and inflamed that stung like fire in frosty weather. She'd been experimenting with poisoned nail varnishes; had she made the poison correctly the result would probably have killed him.

One day he hoped, he would have the chance to meet her 'professionally'. 

He shrugged away the thought and continued up the street to Gaffers Glassware, where he treated the head glassblower, Aeolus Gaffer, to a burst of withering scorn about his Unbreakable Charms. Gaffer listened attentively, agreed that his glassware should not shatter readily, and personally charmed the two sets of distillation tubing that Snape picked out, testing them with a small hammer before his awkward customer finally declared himself satisfied. Snape heard his sigh of relief as he walked out of the door, the package of glassware held carefully under one arm. He gave a crooked smirk as he started to make his way back to Skowers.

He had just passed the crossroads for a second time when someone called his name, and when he looked up he saw a young woman in a green robe hurrying down Fine Alley towards him. He recognised her with a mixture of shock and dislike. _Of all the people to bump into_, he thought disgustedly, _it _had to be her.

It was Lily Potter. 

She was - oh, she was beautiful all right, for a Mudblood. That had never been in doubt, but it only heightened the unease she provoked in him, the cast-iron certainty he felt that she was dangerous. If he had been able to, he would have avoided her like poison. _Poison! _The simile was laughably inappropriate in his case.

She smiled kindly at him, a sweet, unstrained smile, seemingly unaware of his discomfort. "Severus, how are you? I haven't seen you for ages." She was wearing a dark green robe, only slightly darker than her eyes, and her red hair fell loosely over her shoulders in smooth arcs. And she had a baby in her arms.

He stared at the child. Potter's child. She saw the direction of his stare and said lightly "This is my son, Harry - he's nearly four months old now. He's going to be the image of his father." The love and pride in her voice were unmistakable. 

The baby opened its eyes and looked unblinkingly up at Snape. He had big, calm green eyes like his mother's, that appeared to be filled with the same secret wisdom, the same penetrating stare. The child held his gaze thoughtfully, and Snape blinked and looked away. "He has your eyes," he said. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Yes. Isn't he beautiful?" She smiled down at the child in his arms, and then looked back up at Snape, who was watching her, standing slightly beyond arm's length away from her. He had gone very pale. 

"So what brings you to Aberdeen, then?" he asked, casting around for a safer subject.

She sighed. "Last night's tragedy. They were both good friends of mine." She glanced back up at the café, with its retinue of Hit Wizards and bystanders. "I was due to come up in a couple of days anyway, to help Ailsa out in the café. She was expecting her first child, you know. I came up anyway, just to see if there was anything I could do."

"I'm sorry," Snape said inadequately. "It's a bad business." You get used to airing these sentiments. You get plenty of practice, and in the end it doesn't even take any effort - it's just another lie to an experienced liar. It should never have taken such will-power to say them to Lily Potter.

"Yes. All these deaths - and we're still so helpless to prevent them. And to think that they were tortured..." Lily shook her head, looking down at her son for a moment, as if for reassurance. There were tears in her eyes.

"Not both of them, surely?"

Snape realised his mistake the moment he had spoken.

She stared at him in silence. He saw her eyes widen as they searched his face. "How did you know that?" she whispered. "They never made that public."

"Didn't they? The gossips have been full of it at Skowers. I don't know where they got it from." His voice sounded false, unconvincing, an instrument off-key. _Memory charm. Quick_. He should have been reaching for his wand but his treacherous hands refused to move, tightening their grip on the package of glass tubes like a lifeline, the link to the legitimate side of his world.

And as she gazed him full in the face, she saw for the first time what was clearly written there. "Severus, not you... Severus, please tell me you had nothing to do with that." He said nothing, recoiling involuntarily from her words. She was crying freely, but her voice, when she spoke was steady, controlled. "Why, Severus? You of all people. How can you do such things? How can you follow that - creature? Can't you see what he's doing to us all? Give it up, while there's still time. If you ever cared about me - "

"I - " Perhaps he had planned some denial, some glib protestation of innocence. Whatever the words they stuck in his throat. Her eyes - her stare - seemed to fill his vision, blocking out the cobbled streets, the workshops, the winter sky. All presence of mind or intelligence deserted him, and he could only look dumbly back at her while some tiny inner voice screamed its head off. The child was watching him again, unblinkingly, his gaze accusatory in its very innocence - _you made my mummy cry_ - then reached up a pudgy hand to touch his mother's tears. 

She turned away, holding the baby close to her like a shield. "Forget it. I'm going home. You probably won't see me again." Then she disapparated. He made no attempt to stop her.

_If you ever cared about me..._

The parcel of glassware slipped out of his hands, falling heavily onto the cobbles, and he stooped to retrieve it with hands that were suddenly lame and clumsy. And then he turned and blundered half-blindly down Turm Inn Alley back to Skower's.

Gertrude Mockridge looked up from painting her nails and stared at him open-mouthed as he strode past her to the stairs down to the lab. He didn't go into the lab, where Billy was singing at the top of his voice, but pushed into the cloakroom opposite amid the barrels and boxes, and collapsed onto a broken wooden crate as the world shifted about him like quicksand. 

_If you ever cared about me... _

There are some things you bury so deep inside yourself that you almost come to believe they don't exist.

John and Electra had asked about her, when he had first joined the Death Eaters. They said they'd heard rumours about what they called 'an affair with a Mudblood'. He'd laughed disdainfully, and said it had just been one kiss, blown out of all proportion by the school gossips. He'd said it hadn't been anything special. Just a dare, and she hadn't even been a particularly good kisser. 

They hadn't doubted his sincerity: they could see it in his face, hear it in his voice, because by then he had honestly believed it himself. But it hadn't been like that - No, not at all.

* * *

It's a Saturday morning in May, Severus's third year at Hogwarts, and he's fourteen years old. His friends are in the library, working on an essay he's finished the night before. He's wandering about the school grounds, looking for something to do, but unable to settle down to anything; he's bored and restless, dissatisfied with life, school, his friends, his world.

He's walking along by the lake watching the giant squid and trying to think of something to do when it starts to rain, huge droplets of water that fall with slapping sounds on the surface of the lake. The nearest cover is an archway by the greenhouses, two hundred yards away, and he runs for it, though he's wet through by the time he reaches it. 

There's somebody else waiting under there - Lily Evans, one of the Gryffindors in his year. She greets him politely. She's always polite, this Lily, even to Slytherins like him. She's very pretty.

- Oh, er, hi. Lovely weather we're having. The drowned rat look suits you, he answers sarcastically. 

She smiles and says nothing, but her eyes travel over his own drenched appearance with amusement. They wait in silence on opposite sides of the arch, two people with nothing in common and nothing to say to each other. He finds himself watching her. She's very beautiful, and there's a gentle serenity to her that both fascinates and scares him. She catches his eye, and he blinks and looks away.

The rain dies down slightly and she moves to the edge of the archway to go back to the castle, passing quite close to him. The ground is slippery with mud, and she stumbles. Instinctively he catches her clumsily and helps her up. She's standing very close to him now, and in a moment of madness he'll never be able to explain, he leans forward and kisses her.

Immediately he retreats, horrified at himself, stammering out an incoherent apology and trying not to meet her gaze. She catches his sleeve and looks up into his face. She doesn't look angry or affronted - her face is gentle and kind. Her green eyes are the most beautiful things he has ever seen.

- Don't apologise, she says, and, incredibly, she's smiling. 

- Sorry, he says automatically, and then laughs at his own stupidity. She laughs, too. It's a lovely sound.

- No, really. I don't mind. You're okay. I never realised you... 

She stops speaking and blushes. He realises he is blushing too.

- But you're a... I mean I'm a Slytherin... He is confused. Why would a Mudblood want to be kissed by a Slytherin; why would a Slytherin want to kiss one.

- We're both human - probably. I can live with it, if you can.

It's a challenge, and he smiles, in spite of his embarrassment. He understands challenges. And besides, he has fancied Lily Evans forever, or very nearly. It doesn't take much nerve to tell her he can live with it too. They shake hands on it, feeling shy and formal. They even try another kiss, and it works better. The rain begins again with more vigour and this time he's glad of it.

- Come on, she says. - Since we're wet anyway, let's say hello to the rain.

Severus follows her: the world has suddenly become a strange and wonderful place, and the touch of the warm summer rain is almost intoxicating in its richness. They wander slowly through the castle grounds, talking about everything and nothing, drenched to the skin, and not caring. Severus feels deliriously happy, or possibly just delirious. Who would have thought that holding hands could be such a heady experience? He's talking nonsense half the time, and doesn't care. It is the most wonderful hour of his life.

When midday comes, they go back to the castle, by different paths. He feels unsettled in ways he doesn't like to examine. He knows he is playing with fire, but he doesn't really believe it is going to burn him. 

It does, of course.

The following day, and he and his friends are heading off to the Quidditch pitch to watch Gryffindor and Ravenclaw play the last match of the season. They've just come up from the dungeon, and they're crossing the entrance hall amid crowds of other students when a Hufflepuff sixth year comes up to them: Bertha Jorkins. 

- You'll never guess what I saw yesterday, she tells him, right in front of his friends. Wilkes, Avery, Rosier and Lestrange all stare at her. _Go away, stupid Hufflepuff_, their expressions say. Lestrange's new girlfriend, Lucrezia de Vitry looks up at the older girl, and her expression is different. Greedy, predatory - _tell me more._

The adolescent Severus scents danger far, far too late.

- I saw you behind Greenhouse Three, with that Muggle-born Gryffindor, Lily Evans. You were _kissing_. She makes it sound dirty, sordid, unnatural. He can see the other students turning to watch him.

He loses control, spectacularly. His wand is out, every hex he can think of in quick succession is poured out on the cowering figure of the girl before him. He's hardly even aware of the crowd of bystanders, of the Head Boy, Joaquin Boot, shouting at him to stop and then, when he pauses for breath, half-leading, half-carrying the crying Bertha away. Boot gets a couple of curses for his pains, too.

It is Lucrezia who takes charge, dragging him into the nearest empty classroom. His four henchmen tag along behind, taken aback. They've never seen him lose control like that before - but then nor has he. Lestrange closes the door behind them, and as it slams the sounds of the angry students outside are suddenly muted and blurred.

- So! I hope you're proud of yourself, Lucrezia says. Her words are like the crack of a whip across his face, and he flinches.

And then they face him, the five of them, and as he looks at them he suddenly sees them all for the first time. 

Lucrezia de Vitry, standing poised and upright right in front of him. She's well-born: the de Vitrys are second only to the Malfoys in power and influence. She'd never been part of his gang until Lestrange asked her out, but now she's taken the lead - she has her wand out, threatening him. Her expression is hard and contemptuous. 

Felix Lestrange, next to her, tall and slim, dark-haired. Severus has always thought Lestrange a weakling - too highly strung, nervy, useless in a crisis. Now he looks in his element - strong, assured, very angry. He's enjoying this - Severus can read a kind of vindictive satisfaction in his face. Severus has ridiculed him too many times for Lestrange to spring to his defence. He realises belatedly that Lestrange has changed and hardened under Lucrezia's influence. 

Virgil Avery, the insignificant, the one you always overlook. Average height, average build, brown hair, unremarkable face. Except today he isn't. His face may be unmemorable, but his eyes blaze with a fury that draws the eye to him, even beside Lucrezia's imperious face. He has the restrained energy, the focus, of a cat about to pounce - he has become dangerous.

Paul Wilkes, who has known Severus since they were babies. Their fathers are business partners, the joint owners of the successful and only slightly shady Atlantis Imports Ltd. He's short and wiry with thin ginger hair, and a nasal voice which seems tailor-made for the snide remarks which are his stock-in-trade. His small eyes are narrowed even smaller, and there is malicious pleasure on his face at his friend's downfall. Severus suddenly realises that Wilkes is jealous of him. They should be equals, but it is always Severus who has dominated the group - until now.

And the last of them, Evan Rosier, with his bright gold hair and his slow voice. He's standing back, as if he's not quite sure whether he's involved or not. Big, silent Evan, whom the others call 'the dumb blond', though he's not stupid, just quieter and not so malicious. Severus only keeps him around because he is very handy in a fight. His expression is sad and sombre, and it occurs to Severus, much too late, that Evan actually used to like him.

_I took these people for granted_, he thinks, and only now does he realise that they are dangerous.

- So! Lucrezia says again. Do you think you're above us? Do you think the rules don't apply to you?

- Don't you judge me, you little cow! What's it to you what I do? he answers rashly. 

He's afraid, he's angry. For Severus the two always come together. After the years of practice, converting fear into anger is as instinctive as breathing. Fight or flight; and no Snape has ever ducked a fight. When Lucrezia steps forward with her wand raised, he is almost relieved. He is so quick to bring his own wand up that he nearly loses his grip on it. Their first hexes are thrown almost simultaneously.

The fight does not go well. Another discovery, another lesson in taking people for granted: Lucrezia is a far better duellist than he. For all his carefully cultivated reputation as the darkest of the dark experts, he suddenly finds himself bested on his own territory. She's running rings round him, carefully and scientifically turning all his favoured gambits to her own advantage. The others haven't even bothered to draw their wands.

But the duel never reaches its inevitable conclusion, for two minutes later the door opens and Joaquin Boot enters, in time to see him throwing hexes with wild abandon for the second time in ten minutes. Even worse, he is followed by Professor McGonagall. The fight stops instantly.

- Snape! Headmaster's study, now! McGonagall snaps. He goes, and Boot escorts him, tight-lipped, not looking at him or speaking to him. 

It occurs to Severus that he has probably made more enemies in the last ten minutes than he ever has before in his life.

Dumbledore has a lot to say, and he is there some time. He seems more sad than angry, but Severus barely hears the words, just lets them wash over him. He feels exhausted, too tired to care what happens to him, too tired even for anger. He just wants to crawl away into a corner and lick his wounds like a dog. To his surprise Dumbledore doesn't expel him, and barely even punishes him.

And when Dumbledore sends him away, he finds Lily Evans waiting by the gargoyle for him. She looks grave and unhappy too. She puts a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off.

- You really shouldn't have done that, Severus.

- So they tell me.

- Don't you care? You really hurt Bertha, you know.

- So? She hurt me. She had no reason to do that.

- I know. But nor did you. Her hurting you is no reason to hurt her back, whatever she does.

- Turn the other cheek, eh? he sneers. - That won't get me far in life.

He doesn't understand. Two days later, they break up. Shortly after the summer vacation ends, the gossips start to tell the world that Lily Evans and James Potter are an item. Severus swallows his pride and goes back to his friends, and eventually they grudgingly start to accept him again. They never mention the incident again. Nor does he, but pushes the whole sordid affair, and the feelings that it roused in him, down into the small dark place deep inside him where he keeps his secrets. 

And there it stays, untouched and unexamined, until now.

* * *

He wiped his face on his sleeve, as if the action might dull the vividness of the memories. It couldn't: you can't close Pandora's box. 

All that trouble, and what was it for? A single indiscretion, no more than that. It had cost him, permanently, the respect of his friends, had made the teachers distrust him, had made virtually every student in the school hate him, had made Electra and John suspicious of him._ Was it worth it? How can it be?_ But his traitor mind kept showing him her face, her red hair darkened and flattened by the rain, her eyes bright and challenging as she had looked up at him. 'I can live with it, if you can'. 

She had always shone so brightly. And, however briefly, she had loved him.

_If you ever cared about me..._

But why should he care? It had been such a brief moment, unimportant compared to so many things that had happened since. She had only been a Mudblood - an irrelevance. Why did it matter so much that he had lost her respect? Why did it disgust him so much, knowing that he had hurt her? 

The memories repeated themselves again, their vividness undiminished. The touch of her hand. The brightness of her eyes. The warmth of the rain and its gentle touch on his skin. _I had never felt so happy in all my life_, he thought bitterly. _I should have known there'd be a price._

And of all the people who could have met him in the street today, it had to be Lily Potter. Of all the people he knew, of all the people in the world who could have realised what he was, it had been her. 

It was only then that he noticed the sword hanging over his head, realised the danger he now stood in. _She knew what he was_. A woman with known Dumbledore connections knew the identity of a Death Eater. 

He had to track her down before she had the chance to tell anyone. He was going to have to kill her. 

_I must. I can't. It has to be done. _

_If it had been anyone but her..._ He rejected the thought fiercely. It was necessary, it was urgent. _This is not the time to be woolgathering, Sev_, he told himself_. _It was the Dark Lord's rules: where security is compromised, memory modifications are not enough, as they can be breached. Only outright silencing is acceptable. And if Lily was not silenced, his own people would have to silence him. Kill her or die in her place. It's that simple.

_It has to be done._

The idea revolted him, but he couldn't afford to consider that now. _It may already be too late,_ he told himself firmly. _Best to get it over with. It won't hurt for long_. The words rang in his head, unconvincing, as he forced himself onto his feet. He grabbed his cloak and slung it round him, just as the door opened, and Billy MacPherson came in, almost colliding with him in the doorway.

"Wha - ? Mr Snape sir are you all right?" Billy jumped backwards, garbling the words in his surprise. 

_No. No, by God, I'm not. I'm a dead man, and I'm about to start spreading it around._ "I'm feeling ill. I'm going home," he answered angrily. 

Billy stayed standing in the doorway. "Er, is there anything I can do? You look - "

"Get out my way, MacPherson," He found he had his wand in his hand, pointing at his assistant. Billy didn't move: he just stood there with wide and astonished eyes. Innocent's eyes. "If you value your life..." _Keep away from me, if you know what's wise. Go home and lock the doors and bar the windows. Put out the fires and block the chimneys. If I am prepared to kill Lily Potter, boy, there is nothing - _nothing - in the world that I wouldn't do.

Billy started to say something, and then thought better of it. He moved out of his boss's way and let him pass through the door. As Snape strode up the stairs, he made no attempt to follow, just continued to watch him from the doorway until he disappeared from view.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


PERPETRATOR'S NOTE:

Many thanks to Earthwalk, beta-reader extraordinary and voice of sanity, for proof-reading this for me. She also happens to be one of the best Snape writers out there, so read her fic if you haven't already. Thanks also to Doctor Cornelius for correcting the dates in the Prologue. As to the Benjaminite thing, Doc - you're quite correct and it was deliberate.

A few details: An Cruachan is one of the smaller mountains in the Highlands of Scotland, to the South West of Loch Morar. It's ten miles from the nearest road, and I don't know how far from the nearest village. It's a pretty wild and bleak place - only an utter hermit would live there by choice. The patience game is Nine, Nineteen, Twenty-nine. The rules are very simple and it needs no skill beyond basic arithmetic. It's almost unwinnable.

The whole Skowers sequence borrows heavily from my own workplace (a microbiology lab). Madam Skower is actually setting a verybad example, going into a laboratory without a lab coat, especially when things have just been exploding. 

Glassblowers are sometimes called gaffers (according to MS Encarta; I'd never heard it before) and Aeolus in Greek mythology was the keeper of the winds.

Incidentally, this is the first (and probably the last) time that I have used Harry as a character in a Harry Potter fic.

And finally, a theory.

This has been buzzing around my head for a couple of days, so I've decided to inflict it on an unsuspecting world. I present, ladies and gentlemen, Morrighan's First Law of Snapefic.

This law states that all Snape writers can be fitted into one of three categories, which I've named after the three Unforgivable curses. The _Imperius_ writers are the Snape Romance people, who have him falling totally in love with some sweet, innocent young thing, learning to be nice, and generally becoming a transformed man. The _Cruciatus_ writers tend to be the real angst-mongers - Snape as tortured soul and misunderstood loner, complete with unhappy childhood and unrequited love. The _Avada Kedavra_ writers are a rare and wonderful breed of twisted sadists (you know who you are) who seem to get intense pleasure from inflicting massive damage on him, usually winding up killing him in unusual and inventive ways.

Okay, so most of us are probably Cs with bits of I or AK for variety, but it's a nice theory.

Part 3: Self-Inflicted Wounds should be along soonish, I hope. 

  
  



	3. Self-inflicted Wounds

THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS, Chapter 3 THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS 

by Morrighan

  
  


DISCLAIMER: The Harryverse belongs to the great J K Rowlings however much I covet it, though I have made many weird and (I hope) wonderful additions to it. I ain't getting any money for this. 

CENSOR: R. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
PART 3: Self-inflicted Wounds 

_"... it is a monstrous thing, to slay a unicorn... You have slain something pure and defenceless to save yourself and you will have but a half life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips." _(Firenze_, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, _J K Rowlings)__

_"To pick a flower is not a large thing. It is as easy as it is irrevocable. Understand what is being offered here, and do as thou wilt."_ (V, _V for Vendetta, _Alan Moore) 

  
  


Snape climbed the stairs quickly, pushing himself onwards as he tried to keep his mind focussed on the task ahead. The spiral staircase passed him in a blur of rooms and faces, the orderly world of the Skower Corporation becoming a senseless spinning carousel as he passed, blinkered by a growing panic that left him with only the awareness of the few steps immediately before him, and the hard coldness of the iron banisters under his fingers. Those two facts were enough, for now, to keep him moving.

Somebody passed him in the other direction, automatically moving out of his path. They called out a greeting as they passed, but he never heard it.The familiar world around him seemed nothing more than a collection of indistinct, half-real shadows, ephemeral and irrelevant. Only the ground before his feet was still real, and the iron-hard awareness of what he was about to do.__

Images flashed through his head, dancing mesmerically behind his eyes. Lily, cowering before him in some deserted alley. Lily, grey-faced and trembling from the aftermath of the Cruciatus curse. Lily, lying dead on the ground, her beautiful face as white and still as a porcelain doll. Lily ... long dead, her face half-eaten by crows and maggots.

He stumbled over one of the steps and nearly fell headlong - the shock jolting him abruptly back to the present. He steadied himself and started to climb again, holding on to the banister like some healing talisman, but its cold touch gave him no comfort.

He finally reached ground level, and plunged through the Reception area, its familiar front desk and low chairs a meaningless montage of light and shadow. Gertrude Mockridge was talking with somebody at the reception desk, and he was dimly aware of her light, flirtatious laugh, sounding fake and contrived in his ears.

He'd known it as long as he could remember - that the whole game of love was nothing more than a cheap, tawdry scam - self-interest masquerading in the threadbare cloak of affection, as intangible as moonshine, and as unreliable. And then there had been Lily, with her bright green eyes and her gentle face, and he had let himself be fooled. All his cultivated cold remoteness had just - dissolved away.

It hadn't lasted of course - Bertha Jorkins and her big mouth had seen to that. It probably wouldn't have lasted anyway. __But Lily still cared! Without self-interest, without any possibility of gain and with much to lose, he still mattered to her.

And, God help him, he was going to kill her.

He flung open the door onto the street and passed through it, blinded once again by the brightness of the November sunlight as he descended the steps to the street. Turm Inn Alley was more crowded now - a group of people had just emerged from Kemble Cauldrons, travelling north up the street. He turned instinctively away from them and walked swiftly south, in the opposite direction to Fine Alley, with its Hit Wizards and Aurors and the inevitable ghoulish bystanders, turning down a narrow side street to the south of Bluebottle Broomstick Makers.

The moment he turned the corner the shadows closed over him. It was a dark street, narrow and dirty, the cobbles choked with rubbish. The overhanging upper storeys of the buildings each side almost blocked out all view of the sky above. A street sign was fixed to one wall, high above head height: Fate Alley.

Even the Aurors would hesitate to follow him down here - and if they did, they would quickly lose his scent. The denizens of Fate Alley feared neither God, man nor Voldemort. They helped nobody's enquiries and answered nobody's questions.

There were workshops here, too, grubby, dingy little shops whose trades were not specified, and whose windows were blackened to hinder watching eyes. Some had their windows boarded over, the dark boards painted with red sigils. Almost all had their doors locked and barred. The sounds of whatever trades were carried on within filtered through to the street, muffled by the closed doors and windows. Snape obtained some of his more questionable ingredients from one of these businesses by owl order. He'd never visited the workshop in person, and would not even have known which of the shops it was. 

There were crowds here, watching him pass, but nobody accosted him: those who met his gaze let their eyes slide quickly away from his, as if they saw something disturbing there. When they passed him they sidled into doorways, hoping not to incur his notice. What did it matter? Let them run from him if they would. They were sordid creatures, down in their grubby little hearts, devoting their days to petty nastiness and trivial crimes. They were nothing. Whereas he -

_I'm a dead man. I just haven't stopped breathing yet._

"You lookin' for a witch, dearie?" She was older than he, made up too heavily, and the skimpy low-cut robe did nothing for her. She was loathsome, skeletally thin, her skin covered in sores. Even Nero wouldn't have employed her. 

_Yes. But not for you. _"No. Get out of my sight," he snarled, and stalked on, pushing roughly past her. She looked at his face as he shoved her out of his path, and recoiled from him, her painted eyes wide. He walked on, and as before he did not look back.

_Why did it have to be her? _The recurring question burned itself bitterly through his mind. _Anyone else, anyone in the world, I could have coped with, but why her? _

A pedlar selling dried newts scuttled hastily past him; a hag carrying a bundle of what looked like old newspapersdived into a doorway to avoid him_. _They both avoided his eye as he passed. A small girl sat in a doorway, cradling a dead cat dressed in doll's clothes in her arms. She tucked her bare feet under her as he passed, but didn't look up.__

_She should never have spoken to me, the stupid bitch. She should have kept well away from me, like these base-born morons. At least they have the sense to recognise danger when it's staring them in the face. Why didn't I have the sense to walk on and ignore her? _

He turned down a side street, stepping over a corpse sprawled in the street. Its throat had been cut, the blood pooling around it on the cobbles. He should probably have been keeping alert for signs of trouble, but the tunnel vision of desperation was still showing him only the road ahead. The side alley was darker and narrower even than the one he had just left, the walls around him a grimy blur of dank stones. He walked quickly on, turning down another unnamed side street, and then another. It was not until he found himself unobserved that he disapparated.

* * *

The cloud hung low over An Cruachan, hiding its peak and resting lightly on the roof of the barn on its lower slopes. This was his home, if it could truly be called a home - a ruined barn standing exposed on a bare mountainside. To any passing Muggle (and they were few) it was a total ruin, obviously uninhabitable. To the passing wizard - and they were still fewer - the ruin was only partial, with the roof still intact over one half of the barn, and a door where a Muggle would have seen only a blank wall. The lean-to workshop, hidden in the mountain's shadow for most of the day, would have been visible only to the magical watcher.

There were warding spells on the barn, of course, and he checked (far more cursorily than caution demanded) that they had not been broken. They seemed undisturbed so he removed them and went inside, locking the door behind him.

The barn was as unwelcoming inside as out. The one habitable room was sparsely furnished with the bare necessities of living, and such furniture as there was was old and battered. The walls were unpainted, and the carpets and curtains had faded to a nondescript grey, full of tattered edges and pulled threads. 

He pulled the _Floo Directory_ from the book case, and flicked frantically through it in his hurry to find the information he needed, tearing the corner off one of the pages in his haste. He forced himself to stop, looking down at the torn scrap of parchment between his fingers. __

_Stop panicking, dammit_, he told himself_. It's just another hit. You _know the routine.

He strode to the sink, turning the cold tap on to its fullest extent and then stuck his head under it. The shock of the icy water seemed to clear his brain somewhat, and the world came reluctantly back into focus.

He turned off the tap feeling slightly better, and wiped his face with the sandpaperish towel hanging by the sink. Then he returned to the _Floo Directory_, and quite by chance turned immediately to the correct page. Potter, J H and F L, 6 Godric's Hollow, Luccombe, Somerset. He summoned the _Apparator's Atlas_ to the table alongside the _Floo Directory _and looked up Godric's Hollow. According to the map, it lay on the north side of Exmoor, (Godric's Moor, as the wizards called it) on the edge of the Muggle village of Luccombe. He magnified the sketchy map until the cluster of houses that was Godric's Hollow lay before him in comprehensive detail. He memorised the layout and then banished the books back to their places on the bookcase, and went to get ready.

_Just another hit. You've done this before. You can do this in your sleep._

This was where his training showed. It was as if he could detatch himself from his feelings and prepare automatically, running through routines he had established years before. Almost without conscious effort his mind told him that Muggle clothes would be safest if anything went wrong, and selected the set most suitable for winter wear in a rural area The jeans were crumpled and slightly muddy, the boots very muddy. The shirt was an undistinguished dark plaid. He changed quickly into the uncomfortable garments, forcing himself not to rush. After a moment's deliberation he used a charm to add calluses to his hands. 

It was probably grimly ironic that the Death Eaters were better at blending in the Muggle world than all but the most extreme Muggle-lover. The young Severus Snape had protested disdainfully at having to learn how to pass as a Muggle - it was low, it was _demeaning_. Electra, predictably, had been furious: "If you truly wish to become a Death Eater, Severus, you _will_ learn everything I teach you, whether you like it or not. Do you expect your disobedience to impress the Dark Lord? Then do not attempt to question his will. If the Dark Lord wishes you to undertake any assignment in the Muggle world, you will undertake it, and you would hardly be doing him any favours by sticking out like a troll among house-elves." He had put aside his disgust and learned, though familiarity had never lessened his distaste for the task.

The well-practised routine of his preparations gave him a veneer of confidence. Whatever tricks his mind played on him he still had his training to fall back on - and that had never let him down. He gathered the minimum of necessary equipment and stowed it in various pockets, automatically running through a mental inventory in his head. 

His preparations complete, he put a Muggle coat on over the shirt, replaced the warding spells, and then disapparated again. It was only nine minutes since he had left Skowers.

* * *

The moment his feet touched the soil of Godric's Hollow, Snape's fragile confidence vanished. 

His chosen apparition point had been on the wooded hillside above the small magical settlement, and he edged his way carefully down the hill, checking constantly for any magical traps or warning spells. The slopes were covered densely with pine trees, and every footstep seemed to bring with it the loud cracking of twigs, and the more quiet crunching of pine needles under the uncomfortable Muggle boots. The seconds stretched themselves out as he descended - one inch at a time down the precipitous slope. 

It had probably taken him only two minutes to reach the edge of Godric's Hollow - ten houses in a semicircle around a small village green. His apparition point had been behind the houses, and he could see only thin segments of the green between them. He moved slowly along the row of houses, under the cover of the trees, until he reached Number Six. It was the central building of the cluster, and the biggest, a Tudor brick building with cross-timbers and diamond-paned windows. A beautiful house, though it stirred no emotions in its silent watcher, except an unformed dread. 

He'd taken so long that she must be gone by now. 

She had not. There were a few flickers of motion at one of the upstairs windows, and once, briefly, the glimpse of a red head. He drew further back into the trees at this, annoyed to find himself feeling disappointed. Damn it, he'd had long enough to get used to the idea by now. He had been watching only a few minutes when a side door opened and Lily came out, still wearing her green cloak and carrying the baby. He moved into the garden, edging along the side of the house after her, wand in hand.

She walked quickly towards the front gate and the road, her head down and a hood over her hair, and then she changed directions and approached her right-hand neighbour's house, a tiny cottage surrounded with laurel bushes. She pulled the bell rope, and he heard the bell jangling inside the house. Snape moved further forward, edging slowly and silently towards her along the line of the laurel bushes, until he was level with her, hidden by the dark green foliage. She was directly in front of him now, standing at her neighbour's front door with the baby in her arms, scarcely ten yards away from him. 

No assassin could have asked for a clearer shot. He could have killed her five times over in the short eternity before the door was opened. 

When the door finally opened, it was by an old woman wearing a checkered head scarf and shawl. "What is it this -- ?" she began querulously, and then looked more closely at her visitor. She stopped and chuckled. "Sorry love, I thought for a moment it was that Icarus Diggle come back again. Been hassling me all morning, he has."

"Daphne, you wouldn't do me a big favour, would you?" Lily's voice was low and urgent, and the could see from his hiding place that her shoulders were tensed. He felt inexplicably guilty, and then angry at his weakness. _Well, what are you waiting for? _he asked himself furiously. _Just get it done and get out of here. Every second increases the risk._

"Just say the word - miracles going cheap today." Daphne chuckled like the crone she was, showing gappy yellow-grey teeth. "'Ere, what's wrong, love? You're not sickening for something, are you?"

Lily smiled wanly. "I'm fine, Daphne. I've just got to see someone urgently, and I was wondering if you'd be able to look after Harry for me."

"No problem. _No_ problem. It's a pleasure any time." The woman stopped and looked closely at her. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong, pet?"

She turned her face away slightly from Daphne's narrowed eyes, and he saw her face clearly for the first time. She was beautiful even in sadness, and he felt a moment of self-contempt that the sadness was of his making. His wand hand dropped to his side. _You really didn't deserve this, Lily. You never hurt anyone in your life. _There was a vague unfocussed nausea in the pit of his stomach, a dread that what he was about to do would damage him beyond repair. He pulled himself together, berating himself for thinking such nonsense. Beyond repair! What kind of superstitious rubbish was that? But what he couldn't banish so easily was the conviction that he was about to do something monstrous, as unnatural and foul as the slaying of a unicorn.__

He realised he had been holding his breath and let it out slowly. _What are you waiting for? She's a sitting target! This is no time to be getting worked up over petty scruples. Get the job done and get out. _He raised his wand again his wand, and made ready to loose the spell.__

Lily sighed, and when she spoke again she sounded upset. "I'm okay ... Well - no, I'm not ... I - I've just discovered that someone I used to know is involved with Voldemort." The old woman flinched at the name, but Lily didn't seem to notice. "It was someone I used to be friendly with - very friendly with - and I've got to go and turn him in. I - " She hesitated and then said softly. "I suppose I don't really want to do it." She sighed again. "But it's got to be done."

"Yes, love. Even if it's not pleasant - and I've never yet known you shirk something that needed to be done." You could always recognise the Gryffindor mentality, even in those who must have left Hogwarts over a hundred years before. They never lost that black and white view of the world, that unflinching integrity that was no respecter of persons. "But you don't need to put yourself through that on yer own. I c'n go with you, if it would make things easier."

"No," Lily said firmly. "No. I must do it alone, however much it hurts. It's going to hurt someone I used to like. I owe him at least my own pain."

His wand hand sagged again, the fingers stiff from gripping the wand so tightly. He shifted it to his right hand, clenching the fingers of his left to loosen them. Unbidden, the ache in his stomach twisted itself into words._ I don't want to do this. I don't want to be the _sort of person who would do this. The thought stared him in the face, naked and shameless - undisguisable. There were Death Eaters who would do anything in their master's service, no matter how extreme. Hadn't he thought himself one of them? No, more than that. He'd _been_ one of them for almost five years. He'd taken part in the massacre at Ysgol Hud Myrddin, hadn't he? And now, here he was, getting ridiculous scruples over killing a woman who knew or guessed - she had no proof, after all, remember - enough to destroy him. He shelved the traitor thought, and forced himself to concentrate on the job in hand, aiming the wand once more. _Come _on. You know you can do this.

"Yer nuts, girl, I tell you. We're talking Death Eaters here. Nobody owes a Death Eater - you don't owe him squat."

"That's kind of you, Daphne, but I've got to do it. I won't hide from the consequences of my actions."

"I getcha. It's like you don't ditch a lover by owl. It hurts more doing it face to face, but you don't feel like an utter heel afterwards."

Lily laughed, but there was an edge of sadness in the laughter that tore at the heart. "You're very sweet, but I'm quite happy to go alone. I am, honestly. I keep wanting to put it off, but there's no sense in that, is there?" She shifted her grip on the bundle of blankets. "You're quite happy to look after Harry for me?"

"Anything, love. Does he need feeding?"

_Now! Before it's too late._ He blocked out the voices of the two women ahead of him, and lifted the wand a third time. __

_Aim ... _

_Focus ... _

A pause. A wave of revulsion that he hastily thrust aside ... and then in a silent whisper he finally choked the foul words out - "Avada Kedavra."

...

No green light, no explosion. No corpse. 

Lily was still standing there, handing her son over to her neighbour, leaning forward to kiss the baby's cheek. She shone as brightly as ever - as pure and unwavering as the evening star in the sky above. The spell had failed.

For a moment a wave of pure irrational joy swept over him, of wordless wonder at the miracle that had just been wrought - and then the realisation slammed into him that he was doomed.

* * *

_Keep walking. Don't stop._

He didn't know where he was going. He had no idea what he was going to do, or what there was left that he _could_ do. All he knew was that if he stopped walking everything would fall apart. He had somehow managed to get out of Godric's Hollow - he vaguely recalled stumbling through the forest, and onto the moor behind. At some point he'd reached a road and was following that, dimly aware that he had doubled back on himself. 

It had been daylight when he had stumbled away from the tiny circle of houses; it was almost dark now, as the bitter wind off Godric's Moor battered and buffeted him, piercing through soul and mind and body. He pushed himself onwards, his one coherent thought his need to keep moving. Everything else was a seething, roiling whirlpool of warring feelings and ideas, a Pensieve in rebellion. 

He had always found the Avada Kedavra easy, had grasped it the first time he'd been taught it - a remarkable feat, so they said. It was just a matter of focus, and that was easy - focussing on the intended death, and as the words were spoken reaching out towards it, affirming it. They'd said once you had the knack you never lost it. Well, he'd just proved them wrong, hadn't he?

He replayed the failed spell in his head for the hundredth time, each movement, each thought halted and dissected. It hadn't been the wand technique: that had been perfected years before. And the focus had been there, and, shamefully, the intention. But his mind had shied away from contemplating the result he was trying to achieve. He'd let himself lose that focus, and so the spell had diffused, been lost. 

There had been five seconds - five interminable seconds - after the spell had failed. It wouldn't have taken much to try again. The urgency and the pressure of a second attempt might have achieved what the first could not. But he had made no second attempt - he knew he could not have done even if he had wanted to_. _

He had remained where he was for those five seconds - crouched in the shelter of the laurel hedge - as his last hope of deliverance drain away. He had watched Lily thank her neighbour again, kiss her son and hand him over, and for the second time that day, disapparate to safety. 

_Ironic in a way, that the murder that's going to destroy me is the one I couldn't do. _He stumbled on a stone on the verge, and lurched onto the road, just as a tractor came rumbling slowly past, narrowly missing him. _Very funny, Severus. Let's hope the Aurors catch you _before the Death Eaters do. At least the Aurors kill quicker, if you push them hard enough.

He was panicking again, and that annoyed him. He forced himself to walk more steadily, slowing and deepening his breathing in an effort to calm himself down. He was nearing a village now - there were street lights and pavements just ahead, with houses along the other side of the road. He felt a moment's unease about entering a Muggle village, and it took him a moment to remember that he was, in fact, dressed correctly. He saw the lights of a building directly ahead of him, and when he approached it he found it to be a Muggle pub. The pub's sign, swinging in the wind to the accompaniment of an eldritch creaking sound, proclaimed it to be The Green Man. 

A refuge. Somewhere sheltered to give him space to plan, before he became a fugitive. He pushed open the door cautiously and went in.

It was bright and clean, but not noisy, filled with the soft hum of conversation. It smelt faintly of old cigarette smoke and new beer, and a feeble fire burnt in the fireplace. A game of darts was in progress at the far end of the bar, but the rest of the pub was quiet. It was still very early, he realised, only six o'clock. A few heads turned to stare at him as he entered, with the incurious interest of a herd of cows. Were they used to strangers here? He shrugged mentally. No matter. It wasn't like he'd be coming back again.

He went to the bar and asked for a glass of water. As an afterthought he asked to borrow some playing cards as well, and a pack was handed over. The young barmaid looked at the cuts on his face questioningly but he made no attempt to explain them. 

He took the water and the cards over to a dark corner table, and sat down, staring blankly down at the table. _So what now? _The bright lights of the pub were making his eyes sore, and he put his head in his hands to hide them from the light.

_What now? What in Merlin's name do I do now?****_

His mind, which had been so tumultuous only minutes before, was now a barren void. It struck him suddenly how unbelievably tired he felt.

He had nowhere to go. Nobody who would help him. Turning to any of his fellow Death Eaters was out of the question - the few (John and Electra) that he could trust were unswervingly loyal to the Dark Lord; the rest had no reason to help him once he was out of favour. As for outsiders - well, there was only his family. There was none of them he would ask for help - not since his mother - 

He shelved the thought angrily. Suffice it to say that his family would be of no use whatsoever.

The need for sleep was becoming overwhelming, and he sat up again, and picked up the cards, starting to shuffle them, in the hope that the simple activity would help him stay alert. It seemed to work - his hands were shaking, and it took all his concentration to keep control of them. The familiar actions were unsteady at first, slow and clumsy, and he had to be careful not to drop any of the cards.

Whatever happened now, he had one consolation. At least Lily was all right. There was at least that small mercy - that, whatever else happened, Lily was alive. She'd be okay. He could feel his hands becoming steadier, as they always did when he kept them occupied. He cut the cards and started to deal.

He had only put down three cards when somebody placed a hand very firmly on his shoulder.

The playing cards flew from his hands, scattering in all directions, but his wand was in his hand before they hit the floor, and the first syllable of the Avada Kedavra curse had escaped him before he even remembered that he was among Muggles.

"Touch paranoid this evening, are we?" said Paul Wilkes. 

Felix Lestrange was with him, looking down at Snape with a thoughtful expression on his face. Like Wilkes he was dressed in Muggle clothes, though his were a little too well-cut for a rural area. "Put it away, Sev, you'll scare the natives," he said in a low voice, and Snape complied immediately, annoyed by his wand-happy reaction. It was fortunate that the game of darts seemed to be reaching its conclusion, and nobody had taken any notice of the three strangers in the corner.

"What are you - ?" Wilkes began and then broke off. "Circe's tits, Sev! What _have_ you done to your face?"

Snape brushed the question aside. "Nothing important. Just an accident at work."

"Well, you're certainly not going for inconspicuous, are you? You've got mud all over you as well. What are you doing here anyway?" Wilkes took the remaining seat at Snape's table; Lestrange had already sat down, putting his pint of lager on the table.

"I _was_ having a quiet drink before you two arrived, Wilko. What are _you _doing here anyway? Have they chucked you out of the Hexing Hag already?" They had obviously been drinking already - the smell of mead hung undisguisably about them. 

"Nah. Just a spot of light Muggle-bashing."

"What, here?" It was a stupid thing to say, and Wilkes sniggered softly. 

"Sev, you are _such_ an innocent sometimes. This place is right on the doorstep of Godric's Hollow, innit? The biggest collection of Muggle-lovers and Mudbloods in the whole of wizardry. It's ... wossname ... pserkological warfare." He tasted the words, rolling them around his mouth like some choice morsel. "Makes them feel powerless, see?"

"It's more likely to make _you_ look stupid, Wilko" Snape said with disdain. "There's two of you. Do you really think that you can deal with - ?"

Wilkes laughed disdainfully. "Sev, old son, it's only just past six - it's not even started to get busy here yet. There's, what? ten people here - fifteen tops. It'll be a cinch. Me and Felix may not be members of the elite like you, but we're still pretty damn' fine at this sort of thing. You just sit back and watch, and we'll show you how it _should_ be done." Wilkes had probably had several pints of mead already. It didn't show. His capacity for drink was famous among the Death Eaters, and he had even been heard to boast that he could out-drink the Dark Lord himself. Tonight it looked like he was just starting out on one of his legendary benders.

"Perhaps you'd like to join us," Lestrange said. He had a knowing, superior smile on his face that Snape did not trust an inch. It was a dangerous question. Wilkes may not have spotted his earlier evasion, but Lestrange would not have missed it. Severus Snape, one of the most prominent of the younger Death Eaters, in a Muggle pub near Godric's Hollow, 'having a quiet drink'! That would make quite a tale by the time Lestrange had finished with it, especially as the same Severus Snape was said to consider Muggle-bashing beneath him, in spite of the Dark Lord's encouragement of such activities.

"I came here for a drink, not a cabaret," he snarled_. This is not the moment for your petty games, Felix_. _Go _away and leave me alone.

"That so? So what _does_ bring you to Godric's Hollow then? You're not fraternising with the Muggle-lovers, I hope?"

"It's professional. Nothing to do with you, and in any case I've finished the job. I was just about to leave when you walked in on me."

"Oh, c'mon, Sev! Two's too small for a Muggle-bashing party." Wilkes sharpened his voice into a wheedling whine. "You know you want to."

Lestrange laughed sardonically. "Or would you rather we told James Potter that you're sleeping with his wife?"

_You what - ? _His first reaction was overwhelming astonished outrage. Whatever suspicion he thought Felix Lestrange had been nurturing, it had not been this. It took Snape a few seconds to recover the power of speech. "If you dare..." He rose to his feet, almost incoherent with rage, his eyes narrowed. Lestrange laughed again and pushed him easily back into his seat. 

"I knew it!" he crowed, and then lowered his voice as he noticed that they were starting to attract attention. "Calm down, Sev - you're embarrassing us."

"You mean you really are poking Potter's bird? Well, of all the - I never thought you had it in you!" 

He choked down his rage, annoyed at having let Lestrange get under his skin. "Look, just get on with it, will you? Before I strangle the pair of you."

Lestrange slapped him on the back with totally gratuitous heartiness. "That's the stuff, Sevvikins. Let's get started, shall we?"

With practised ease Wilkes sidled over to the door, and Snape saw the ripple of air that marked the passage of the warding spells, just as Lestrange strode to the centre of the pub and set his wand off with a bang. He had their attention now - what followed would not be pleasant.

A few seconds later the screams started. The despoliation of the Green Man had begun.

* * *

Just another Muggle-killing. Just another scene of unnecessary carnage - he'd seen so many. There was nothing special about this one. Nothing at all.

The screams had ended now, and a pall of silence hung over the pub, as Wilkes, his wand back in his belt, dusted off his hands and then picked up a half-finished pint from the bar, draining it in one gulp. Lestrange was seated on a table, humming a snatch of melody, as he absently threw darts at one of the bodies, trying to hit it in the eye. 

His friends had enjoyed themselves. 

He would have been glad of the mask now, because Lestrange, who always saw too much too clearly, was looking at him penetratingly, even accusingly. 

"You weren't much use, were you?" he said, with the same knowing, superior tone he had used earlier. "And you're supposed to be the man who made the best first kill the Death Eaters had ever seen. They ought to put you out to grass."

"Yeah. I noticed that" Wilkes chipped in, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. "What's biting you? Losing your nerve?" 

Snape picked up his wand. It had lain on the table amid the scattered playing cards for the entire duration of the massacre. "Say that again, Wilko," he said softly, "And you'll never speak again."

Wilkes laughed nervously. "Oh c'mon, I'm not serious, mate. Just thought you were usually more of a psycho, thassall. Don't take it personal, like." He looked around at the ruined pub disdainfully. "Anyway, the fun's over here - time we went for a real drink. Which d'you prefer, folks?" he asked them, "The Giant's Head or the Hexing Hag?"

"The Giant's Head for me. I feel like some really good strong mead tonight. You coming, Sev?"

Snape shook his head, as much to clear it as anything. "I'm going home. I'm not feeling well."

Lestrange laughed. He still had that superior expression on his face. Wilkes misinterpreted it completely. "Come on. You'll feel better for a drink. A proper drink, not that weak rat's piss you usually have."

"I'd rather not. I've got an early start in the morning."

Wilkes shrugged again. "Your trouble is, you're too damn' boring. Well, it's your loss. If you change your mind, you know where to find us. Come on Felix, I need that drink." He opened the window of the pub and fired the Dark Mark into the sky, and then disapparated. A second later, Lestrange left also, but not without a last curious glance at his sometime friend.

Snape did not move. He stood, feeling disoriented and bewildered in the middle of the pub, looking around at the wreckage - at the bodies that littered its floor, the smashed beer glasses and overturned tables, at the scattered playing cards he'd borrowed, cards that were spotted with blood now, cards that would never be returned to their owner. 

Escaping justice seemed irrelevant now. 

_And what of your glorious career now, Severus? Is this what it amounts to?_

It had all been Lestrange's doing. He had been watching Lestrange merrily despatching the panicking drinkers of the Green Man with refined skill - Lestrange, who always used to be so nervy and awkward - and had recognised in his eyes the same exhilaration that he himself had always felt when killing. 

His thoughts were pulled inexorably back to Lily Potter, and his own recent failed kill. Would he have enjoyed Lily's death? Would it have given him that rush of euphoric satisfaction? He tried to tell himself it would not, but a nasty little voice kept saying _Oh, but it would, it would. Can't help yourself, can you? _

_Death Eater - Death Addict._

How many people had he killed? Tens? Hundreds? He'd never even thought to keep count. It had never mattered enough.

_Perhaps it should have._

The silence in the pub seemed thick and oppressive, broken only by the ticking of the clock, a dry mechanical sound that rang out clearly in the silence. Every now and then a drip of beer would fall from one of the pumps with a soft thud, but between these sounds there seemed to stretch acres of heavy silence. He reminded himself that he had to get out of here before the Godric's Hollow crew came swarming over it, and picked up his wand, wondering where on earth he could possibly go.

The slight motion from the corner of the pub startled him almost out of his skin - a shifting of one of the bodies. For a long instant he hesitated, and then went over to investigate. The impossible had happened: someone had survived.

He was a young man, this Muggle, probably no older than Snape. His body was broad and muscular, a labourer's physique, and his thick hands were covered with smears and spots of oil, grey with the ingrained grime. Snape dimly remembered Lestrange torturing him, while Wilkes enchanted one of the bar stools to fly, so that it slammed into him again and again. He was slumped on the floor, blood soaking through the dirty shirt, which stuck to his ribs, showing clearly where the rib cage had caved in. His eyes flickered feebly when Snape moved closer. He tried to move his head to look up and let out a high keening sound. 

Snape knelt by the young Muggle and stared down at him. A pair of dark brown eyes stared back up at him, full of pain and fear, with the dumb expressiveness of a wounded dog. 

"Help ... help me ... For God's sake - don't leave ... me like this. If you have any pity left in you ..." 

Snape stared down at the young Muggle, feeling useless and pathetic. There seemed nothing he could do. _Why_ had he never learned the healing charms? He sat there, motionless, as the seconds passed, marked by the slow ticking of the clock. 

The telephone started ringing abruptly, and Snape tensed. The bell seemed unusually loud in the unnatural silence, a discordant jangling that set his teeth on edge and his head reeling, drowning out all thought. It took him a moment to realise that answering it would be a stupid thing to do, so he stayed where he was, his shoulders hunched against the sound as if it were a physical assault. He did not relax when it stopped ringing. 

He continued to sit there as the seconds dragged on, listening to the young Muggle's shallow breathing.

"Help me," the young Muggle said again, the expressive brown eyes still boring into Snape's. "Hurts ..."

Snape drew out his wand and stared helplessly down at the pitiful broken body, for what seemed like an age, amid a silence that was now deafeningly loud. There was only one way he knew of taking away pain. 

"_Somnus_," he whispered, and the boy's eyes closed gently. And then, almost inaudibly "_Avada Kedavra_." 

This time the spell did not fail. There was the merest spark of green light as the young Muggle died. 

Snape sat there for a moment, staring into the empty face of his victim. Then he disapparated. He did not look back. 

* * *

So here he was, back at the barn at An Cruachan. Back home, in the first place the Aurors would look for him. A sitting target - it was a wonder they weren't here already.

_And what would it matter if they were? _he asked himself in a rush of cold anger._ It would be no more than you deserve. _

He hadn't gone to the workshop. There could hardly be any point in refuges now. He looked around the cold barn, examining critically the home he usually ignored. He spent as little time here as possible. It was a comfortless room - bleak and Spartan, shoddily furnished. He looked around again, his eye falling on the chipped, handleless mug that anyone with an ounce of self-respect would have replaced long ago, at the one easy chair, a battered wicker thing standing island-like in front of the empty fireplace, at the cobwebby grey curtains.

"And can you honestly say you never realised?" he asked the empty room bitterly. "Can you have the nerve to pretend you didn't know what you were doing?"

There was no answer. The barn's rough walls did not return so much as an echo.

_Oh, I knew all right. I knew all along, right from the start._ Yes. He had known. The moment Travers had first spoken to him all those years back, Snape had suspected that his business would be something shady. It wasn't merely the subtle inflexions of the Knockturn Alley accent - though Snape had recognised them instantly, of course. It was his whole demeanour that had spoken of some special purpose. Nobody who was about honest business would be so casual and yet so watchful. Yes, he'd recognised all that, he'd seen the danger signs - and he'd followed Travers into the shadows with his eyes wide open. Why?_ Was I that debased already?_

_Because I was bored._

__Bored. Oh you stupid bastard. Such an inadequate reason to destroy or sublimate every ounce of humanity he possessed, as he had gradually learned the art of murder. Such a pathetic justification of the years spent in the service of a subhuman master. 

They had started him on it gradually, cautiously at first, and then more thoroughly, but the killing had never been a big deal to him. He'd seen his first murder when he'd been only seven - a Colombian drugs baron who had once been one of his father's firms key suppliers, and was now merely just another annoyingly persistent creditor, or so his father had said. There'd been others, too, before he'd even started at Hogwarts. It had merely been something that happened - just another part of the way the world worked. It had hardly even mattered.

But not even old man Tiberius had ever killed as many as his son had. No. He had no right to blame the old bastard. He'd always had the choice. 

What had he become now? What kind of abomination would attempt the murder of a loved one out of petty self-protection? He'd even had the nerve to call it _duty._

It must have happened inch by inch, one death at a time, so subtly that he'd never noticed the gradual mutilation of his moral sense. Every murder he had committed had been a self-inflicted wound, willingly administered and misnamed obedience. It had been a death by a thousand cuts, as the scars he left on the world were mirrored by the deeper ones on himself. Every innocent life he had taken had been the slaying of a unicorn - the destruction of something unique and wonderful, deforming the killer - and he had let himself become so accustomed to that tainted half-life that he had never even noticed it. 

And what, if he had killed Lily Potter, would have been left of him?

_Nothing. Nothing worth having._

_So what is left of you _now, then? Hardly more, I think. Were those other deaths worth less than hers would have been? He nearly laughed at that, his face twisted into a sardonic sneer. _Well, why don't you ask the Aurors about that? They'd tell you fast enough - particularly when they hear you were there when Ysgol Hud Myrddin was destroyed._

Ysgol Hud Myrddin (Merlin School of Magic, as it was called outside Wales) had been destroyed two years before, in the most extreme massacre the Death Eaters had ever carried out. The Welsh-language magical school had less than a hundred pupils, and only a handful of staff - most of whom had died one night two years ago, when the Dark Lord, and seventeen of his most trusted Death Eaters had stormed the place.

Hogwarts itself, which the Dark Lord would have destroyed if he could, was far too well-protected for such pyrotechnics, but the tiny Welsh school, situated in a manor house at Bodorgan on the island of Anglesey, was an easy target, and a fitting reminder to all who considered their children safe. It had horrified the entire magical world, and when, two weeks later, the Ministry had authorised the use of the Unforgivable curses on suspects, it had met with almost unanimous support. The school had never reopened.

There were those even among the Death Eaters who had been shocked by the extremity of the massacre. The five Welsh-speaking Death Eaters had all refused to take part in the raid, even after torture so extreme that it had led to the death of one of their number, and the descent into madness of another. Many of the other Death Eaters had also drawn back from involvement. Snape had not been one of them. 

One hundred people, most of them children, had been killed in that one night, slaughtered like sheep with the businesslike efficiency that only the Dark Lord's most competent servants could provide. They had herded everyone - staff, students, house-elves - into the school's chapel, and systematically killed every last one of them.

Snape had not slept for three nights afterwards. 

_And did that tell you nothing? _The sleeplessness that the raids brought on, the memories and visions that haunted him with almost hallucinatory vividness, the way his victims' words had returned repeatedly to him - they had all been warnings. All gadflies trying to sting him into life. It had taken so much to get him to listen, and by then it was far too late.

There was no amends that he could make. As if some trite apology could cancel out five years of bloodshed! Even to mention reparation was to trivialise the crimes he had committed, an insult to their victims. 

A debt like this could never be repaid, only written off by the death of the perpetrator.

Breathing heavily, he took a knife from one of his pockets and looked down at it. It was ordinary enough to the naked eye - a folding scalpel of the kind that potioners ordered by the dozen. He touched a screw on the hilt and the short blade sprang into place. This was _the_ knife - the last resort - that he always kept with him. He'd treated the blade with his strongest poison, and then heated it in a furnace, to bind it permanently to the blade. The tip had only to break the skin to kill, and death would be almost instantaneous. It would very easy. It probably wouldn't hurt.

He stared down at it, and knew that he didn't have the courage.

_What choice do you have, Severus?_ he taunted himself. _A quick death by your own hand, or a slow and nasty one at someone else's. Hand yourself in if you will, and spend your life with the Dementors. Do you want that? Or try to run away, and wait for the Dark Lord to catch you. He'd give you a messy, painful death. Is that what you'd rather?_

He opened his hand and let the knife fall, watching it bounce once, twice, before coming to rest by the empty fireplace. He stared at it in silence for a moment, and then stood up, pacing the length of the unlit room.

"Oh yes," he said out loud, his voice harsh and bitter in the silent room. "You happily helped kill all those others. Too much of a coward to do the same to yourself, aren't you? Too _contemptible_ to settle the matter cleanly." He could feel a cold fury welling up in him, an icy loathing for the creature he found he'd become. "You don't even deserve a painless death. You deserve to feel it, every bit of it, like McKinnon did - like all those others before him. Like you would probably have made Lily suffer, you sick, pathetic bastard. You talk so glibly about self-inflicted wounds - as if your own pathetic pride mattered more than your victims' lives. But you knew, all right - yes, you knew," he snarled bitterly. "You always had that choice, damn you, and you threw it away."

He brought up his hands and raked his fingernails across the skin of his face. They caught on the cuts from the exploding potion, and he felt a rush of savage satisfaction as he felt the skin tear._ Oh yes, you knew all right. And you spent all those years hiding from the knowledge - hiding behind your anger and your hatred, making masks of cruelty and callousness. _He dragged the nails across his skin again, harder, and felt more of the fragile covering give way. _And now, like the snake you are, you want to throw off those skins - as if there was anything left underneath. It's too late for you now._

The room spun around him, careering wildly and uncontrollably as he clawed at the torn skin. He could feel pressure building up in his head as if it was being crushed under great weights, and it spread to his chest, forcing him to fight for breath as the voices rang out like fanfares in his head. 

_If you have any pity left in you ..._

(The pub with its brightness and warmth, as the screams of its customers and staff echoed around the walls. The young Muggle, tortured and battered by the combined efforts of his friends. Lestrange's boyish giggles as he tormented and killed the Muggles around him. The screams and sobs of the young barmaid, raped hurriedly by Wilkes. The scent of blood and sweat and human fear overlaying the normal smell of the pub. Himself watching, feeling sick and confused, but doing nothing. The scene changed abruptly: another raid, another pub. Himself, newly branded, escorting a scared young cat burglar from the bar of the Hexing Hag at wandpoint to be interrogated by Electra and John. The burglar's body, nine hours later, (the lad had been brave, or at least stubborn) discarded on a pile of rubbish in Carne Alley. More changes of scene: an old Auror, killed defending his Muggle-born daughter-in-law. One of his unfaithful colleagues, tortured into insanity by Electra and himself. A half-blood baby, butchered by Travers...)__

_If you ever cared about me ..._

(The chapel of the Welsh school, its echoes ringing with the screams of the children, its shadowy recesses lit periodically with flashes of blazing green light.The Dark Lord at the centre of the room, his arms folded as he surveyed the work of his faithful, who killed with even greater vigour when they sensed his eyes boring into their backs. The white faces of the children as they clung together, and the futile resistance of their teachers. The frightened eyes of a little Welsh girl with a heart-shaped face and curly black hair, staring at him from the corner she was crouched in as he had prepared to kill her, her petrified whispers of "Iesu ... Iesu ...", and _oh my God, did I really do that? _her corpse, its throat slit, seconds later, and another, and then another and ...)__

_How can you do these things and live with yourselves? How can you look the world in the eye, knowing what you are? Give it up, for your own sakes. Nobody is forcing you to do evil, or to be evil, except yourselves _...

Ailsa McKinnon's words rang out in his head like the still, small voice of a distant trumpet as he felt the walls of his mind come crashing down around him. He never even heard himself scream.   
_  
* * *_

_What do you do when you wake up and realise you are a murderer?_

_What is there left when you have broken every legal and moral code on earth?_

The fury had passed away, and left only a hollow emptiness in its wake. He lay slumped on the floor feeling drained and exhausted. All the forces that had borne him along for so long - the in-born savagery, the relentless drive and the tides of bitterness and anger that had spawned it - they had abandoned him, and he was left, beached on a barren shore after a change as natural and as inexorable as the turning of the tide.

The blood on his face was starting to harden, encrusting round the many cuts he had inflicted on himself. He felt no pain from the cuts. He could feel nothing. 

He stood up slowly and walked unsteadily to the wicker armchair and collapsed into it, staring unseeing at the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the dead ashes in the grate. Perhaps they were the ashes of his life. Perhaps the ashes of those he had killed, or helped to kill. Was there really a difference? No. They were just ashes - from a fire that had burnt itself out. He didn't have the energy for anger or passion any more, just a kind of dull despair that closed around him, dragging him down into some uncharted darkness, filling him, heart and soul and mind. It was like drowning. 

For the first time in years he felt cold. 

He didn't light the fire, just continued to sit numbly before it, staring into the grate. The barn felt damp and he could hear the hushed sounds of the rain on the roof. The cold was beginning to make him sleepy, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy. He drowsed for a while, letting himself drift along in the grey territory between sleep and waking in an unsatisfying half-sleep that was neither. Very soon, he knew, his future would catch up with him.

The Aurors would be here soon, and then everything would be out of his hands. All he had to do was wait for them. 

He wouldn't resist arrest. He'd go with them without any trouble. He'd accept the sentence they gave him, and go willingly to Azkaban. Gradually the earth would forget him, and time would mend the wounds his actions had caused. At some stage, no doubt, he would die, and the world would not even notice his passing. Five hundred years from now it would be as if he had never existed.

It was nearly dawn now - a grey, colourless dawn, damp and still, that fell shroudlike over the mountains around the barn, leaching them of colour and life. The world outside was silent and motionless. He felt almost calm, having made a decision, and sat there in a kind of mindless lethargy, watching the world outside the window lighten as the day crept up on him. 

The rattling of a window, amplified by his tired mind, jerked him abruptly back to the present. He looked up, but the only visitor was his owl, Alleatha, returning from the dawn's hunting with a mouse hanging from her claws. She ignored him and flew up into the roof of the barn. 

Alleatha had always been wary of him, never approaching him unless she was carrying messages for him. She was a short-eared owl, born not far from his home and wilder than most trained owls. He had raised her himself from a hatchling, and had never tried to discourage her from her wild self-sufficiency.

"Alleatha." His voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar to him, and the act of speaking stretched the skin on his face so that some of the cuts started to weep anew. Alleatha laid aside her mouse and flew down to him, perching on the arm of the wicker chair, her enigmatic eyes fixed on his. He reached out a bloodied hand towards her, and, unusually, she did not fly away, but stood there motionless, letting him stroke her head as she continued to watch him impassively. "I'm going to have to go away, Alleatha," he said softly, "Probably for quite a long time." Was her stillness comprehension or merely bored fortitude? "If I don't come back go to Eeylops in Diagon Alley. You'll be looked after there, and they'll find you a new owner. I hope it's a better one." She remained quietly on the arm of his chair, letting him stroke her head, as he waited passively for the inevitable. The softness of her feathers under his hand was comforting, and he imagined he saw approval in her enigmatic face. 

All he had to do was wait for them.

It was almost fully light now, shining dimly in from the colourless world outside. Waiting. That was all there was to it, and the whole thing would be taken out of his hands.

_At least Lily will be safe._ He had at least that small consolation, the single redeeming grace of his whole disgraceful career. Lily would no longer be in danger.

But would she? Was anybody? He knew as well as any that there was at least one spy inside the Ministry and probably more. When they heard that she was to give evidence when he was tried -

_No - I can't take that risk._ Suppose he gave himself up now, told them everything. Lily's suspicions would pale into insignificance beside his own testimony. They'd have no reason to trouble her then.

He could go to the Ministry, tell them he had information. Would they believe him, once they knew what he was? He doubted it. The Dark Lord had already sent plenty of fake 'informants' that way. He'd just be another one. Then where else? To Dumbledore then? Would he believe him? _I don't know._ Possibly.

It had to be better than nothing.

At length Alleatha ruffled her feathers and flew gracefully up into the rafters of the barn. He watched her shuffle into the shadows of the roof, and sat there limply a moment longer before standing up slowly. His face was stiff with dried blood now, and the Muggle clothes were crumpled and blood-stained. It was strangely reassuring to know that the blood was only his own. 

He pushed back the hair that had fallen over his face, freeing some of the errant strands from the dried blood. It was no longer straight and stiff, but hung in loose straggly curls around his face. Of course. The Sleekeazy would have worn of completely by now. He went over to the sink and picked the bottle up, and then changed his mind. There was no point in pretending any longer. It could hardly matter, where he was going. 

He slung his cloak round him and picked his wand up. From force of habit he looked around to check that he'd left everything tidy. Then he disapparated. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


__PERPETRATOR'S NOTE

Eternal gratitude to Earthwalk, who beta-read this, & also to Merlyn, who helped out with the name of the Welsh school at very short notice indeed.

It seems to me that character-driven fics are a bit like playing snooker. You aim the white ball (the plot) at the coloured ball (the character) and hope it goes in the direction you want. This ep felt like trying to set up a very hard trick shot, with the ball bouncing off several cushions and a couple of other balls before rolling into a pocket. In fact it was a real swine to get right and I've spent most of the last month tearing my hair out over it. If I've had to nudge the ball at any point tell me - but do it gently.

A couple of notes on places: Godric's Hollow we know from book 1 is SW of Bristol, & since Gryffindor was from the moors I'm speculating that it lay on or near one of them. I actually wanted to put Godric's Hollow near Princetown on Dartmoor, but the only large-scale map I had was of Exmoor, & Luccombe had the kind of terrain I was after.

Bodorgan, on the island of Anglesey, is really just a collection of houses, but it does have a railway station which by rights ought to have been closed down years ago. According to rumour the reason it hasn't been shut down is that the railway runs through the grounds of Bodorgan Manor, & they were only allowed to build the railway on condition that there was a station in the grounds. (This is all vague recollections of something I heard some years ago from a colleague who lived there. I may have got it completely wrong.)

The name Alleatha is borrowed from _The Books of Magic_, a DC Vertigo comic about a British teenage magician who bears a marked physical resemblance to Harry Potter. In case anyone gets the wrong idea from this, BoM started _long_ before HP1 was published.

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Twisted Phoenix

THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS 

by Morrighan

  
  


DISCLAIMER: The Harryverse _still_ doesn't belong to me. It is, as ever, the property of the great J K Rowlings, queen among writers. I have added various things that seemed like good ideas at the time.

CENSOR: R. Assuming, of course, that Chapter 3 hasn't scared everybody off.

  
  
  
  
  
  
PART 4: Twisted Phoenix  
  
  


It was raining over Hogsmeade, not heavily, but with the kind of monotonous persistence that indicates many more hours of rain to come. The sky was a pale anonymous grey, the land beneath it dulled and subdued by its influence. 

The chickens were not deterred in the least by the rain or the cold, but flocked eagerly round Hagrid's foot with excited whoops and squawks, pecking affectionately at the toe of his wellington boot. The ground inside the coop was slippery with mud, and Hagrid had to wedge his foot firmly against the chickens' trough to stop it from sliding. He picked up the pail of grain by his other foot and swung it over the wire, preparing to pour it into the trough. The chickens' gossiping intensified: _Breakfast Breakfast _Breakfast!

Hagrid was just tipping the pail when, out of the corner of one eye, he saw Fang prick up his ears, turning his head to look behind him. Fang had been sitting a little way off, nonchalantly feigning disinterest in the ritual at the hen coop. He'd once had a nasty peck on the nose from a particularly obstreperous cockerel, and, softy that he was, had kept well away from poultry ever since. 

"What've yeh heard, Fang?" Hagrid asked, unconcernedly, but Fang's only reply was to start running off in the direction of the road to the castle, his tail waving enthusiastically behind him. "Fang! _Heel!_" The dog took no notice. Hagrid hurriedly tipped the grain into the trough and retreated from the hen coop, pausing only to wire the entrance together again before chasing after Fang. "Fang! Come 'ere, yeh great dafty!"

Hagrid was still fifty yards away when Fang reached his destination: the main drive to the castle, empty except for a solitary stranger who was walking slowly in the direction of the castle. Hagrid ran faster, his boots squelching messily in the soft ground. "_Fang!_" he roared, more to alert the stranger ahead of him than from any expectation that Fang would listen to him. But he was too late - Fang had reached the stranger and greeted him with enthusiasm, knocking him flying into a puddle and landing in a satisfied heap on the stranger's chest. Hagrid was just in time to pull him off before he started licking the stranger's face.

That face was the first shock of the morning. It was a mess - mangled and bloody, covered in cuts and scars. It looked like he'd had seen the wrong end of the Excoriatus curse some time in the recent past. The eyes that stared up at him were as pitch-black as his own, but glazed and unfocussed - empty eyes. Hagrid found himself hoping that this was just the shock of Fang's overenthusiastic greeting. Fang, bless him, was no featherweight, and people often seemed a little overwhelmed after meeting him for the first time.

Hagrid reached down and pulled the stranger to his feet, trying to ignore his odd appearance. The kid - he looked quite young - seemed familiar, but Hagrid, who rarely forgot a face, couldn't place him. He must have been a student here some time in the last ten years, surely.

"Sorry 'bout that," Hagrid said, a touch breathlessly. "Don't mind Fang - there's no harm in 'im really. Just hasn' had his walk yet this morning. All right there?"

The stranger nodded dumbly. He was swaying slightly on the spot and Hagrid put out a hand to steady him. "Tell yeh what," he said. "My hut's not so far from here. I'll find yeh a dry robe an' we c'n get them scratches seen to. All right?"

The kid looked at him uncertainly. "I ... I need to see Dumbledore," he said.

Well, that was a different matter. "You gotta appointment?" 

The kid shook his head and Hagrid hesitated, scratching his chin, his brow furrowed. Dumbledore had told the staff at dinner last night that he was expecting guests this morning and wasn't to be disturbed, but - "Well, I dunno about that," he said hesitantly. "I think he's busy all this morning. He's a busy man, Dumbledore. Lots of calls on his time. I c'd see if McGonagall c'n help you. She's his deputy, see?"

"I need to see him." The same dead voice. No explanation, no elaboration - and those unnerving eyes! Who _was_ this kid? He was starting to make Hagrid nervous.

"Well ... he did say as he wasn't ter be disturbed. I c'd take yeh to Madam Pomfrey. She c'n fix your face up an' I'll see if Dumbledore can see yeh later."

"Face?"

It was at that point that Hagrid started getting _very_ worried. Whatever mess this stranger was in, the Excoriatus Curse didn't even register. This sounded like real trouble. "So ... Why d'yeh want ter see him?" he asked cautiously.

The stranger stared blankly at him for a long moment, as if he'd totally forgotten why he was there. Hagrid's unease, if it were possible, deepened further. "Information," the stranger said at length. "I've got information for him." 

Hagrid gave in. "I'll see what I can do. You come along with me." Under normal circumstances he wouldn't have dreamed of disturbing Dumbledore, but he couldn't help feeling - well - that these were not normal circumstances. He put the lead on Fang and left him tethered to a tree, and then steered his unexpected visitor in the direction of the castle. 

Hagrid took one of the smaller paths to the castle, one that led, not to the main entrance, but to a small door set in the base of one of the towers. The door led through the North wing of the castle, which was almost entirely given over to teachers' quarters, and Hagrid took a far longer route than necessary through it, half-hoping to meet McGonagall or someone else - anyone - who could take the lad out of his hands without having to trouble Dumbledore. They didn't meet a soul.

When Hagrid finally stood before the gargoyle that led to Dumbledore's office he still had no idea if he was doing the right thing. What if his visitor was under the Imperius curse or something? He watched the kid surreptitiously for a moment, but he was doing nothing more dangerous than standing there quietly, staring at the ground.

Hagrid hesitated in front of the gargoyle, opened his mouth to speak, and then hesitated again. He hesitated a third time for good measure, and then spoke the password quickly before he could think better of it: Cockroach Cluster.

The gargoyle sprang aside, and Hagrid led his visitor up the gliding spiral staircase. Feeling very unsure of himself indeed he knocked on the door at the top. It had clearly been locked, for it did not open to them automatically, and it was a good fifteen seconds before Dumbledore opened it by hand.

"Ah, Hagrid. Is there a problem?" he asked briskly.

Hagrid hesitated again. "I'm sorry, Professor Dumbledore sir," he said. "But it's this man. He - "

Dumbledore glanced casually over at Hagrid's companion, and Hagrid saw his expression suddenly freeze. His heart sank. _Knew I'd got it wrong_, he thought, ashamed at his lack of foresight. _Shoulda gone straight ter McGonagall. Shoulda let her handle this_.

The silence lengthened as Dumbledore stared at the visitor Hagrid had brought him. The kid was looking fixedly at the floor, but after what seemed an age raised his eyes slowly to Dumbledore's face and immediately dropped his gaze again. It was almost as if he was - _ashamed?_ Hagrid was puzzled. Why had the kid wanted to see Dumbledore so badly if he couldn't even look at him, let alone go near him?

The long seconds of silence were starting to make Hagrid twitchy. Dumbledore was still watching the young man, his features frozen into impassivity. It must have been a minute or more before he broke the silence. 

"Severus Snape?" he asked softly, his voice doubtful, almost disbelieving. The stranger raised his head again, and for a fleeting instant met the Headmaster's eyes. He dropped his gaze again and nodded briefly. 

"Thank you, Hagrid. You were quite right to bring him to me. You'd better come in, Severus." 

As the intruder followed Dumbledore into the circular office beyond, Hagrid happened to catch sight of his hands. They were as bloodstained as the face, the blood caked thickly around the fingernails. With a sickening jolt he realised that those scratches on the lad's face had had nothing to do with the Excoriatus curse. His next reaction was of guilty relief that the kid was out of his hands. At least Dumbledore would know what to do. Dumbledore always knew what to do.

Great man, Dumbledore.

* * *

Snape followed Dumbledore into the room and watched as Dumbledore shut the door firmly behind them and took his wet cloak from him, hanging it on a hat stand by the fire. He wasn't thinking about that he was going to do - he wasn't thinking about anything. He just stood there, by the door, waiting unresistingly for whatever fate awaited him.

"Before we do anything, Severus, let me take you to Madam Pomfrey to deal with your face."

It took a moment of incomprehension before the sounds gained meaning and became words. Madam Pomfrey. Matron. Hogwarts. School. He shook his head dumbly. _No._

Dumbledore looked as though he was going to say something, but clearly changed his mind. "Very well. But you had better let me seal up those scratches. They may not trouble you, but many people would find your appearance a trifle ... unconventional."

Snape shrugged, and Dumbledore led him over to an East-facing window where the light fell full on his face, and, placing a hand on the top of Snape's head to steady it, began to draw the tip of his wand lightly over the lines of the ripped skin.

Now this was an ordeal that he had not expected. This was pure undiluted terror. Dumbledore's face was directly before him, barely an arm's length away from his own, full of a merciless blazing brightness - and in the midst of that face the ice-blue eyes, which had never before seemed so terrible. The touch of Dumbledore's hand against his scalp seemed to him to burn like fire, its firm weight preventing him from escaping the implacable face before him. It took all his self-control not to flinch away from the wand's tip - to knock it away and then turn and run, back to the hazardous safety of the shadows that had spawned him. 

He reminded himself that the motionless face watching his own so closely was concentrating only on repairing his injuries, but that expression - surely of nothing more than extreme concentration - had all the pitiless intensity of a drill bit.

Finally - at last - the wand and hand were removed, and Dumbledore stepped away from him to inspect his handiwork.

"That should do well enough for now," he said briskly. "I am not a trained mediwizard, so you will need to get them seen to properly later. If you want to wash, the sink is over there."

Snape walked over to the sink obediently, and washed his face and hands. He could feel raised lines where the scars had been, but there was no more blood. 

When he returned, Dumbledore was seated at his desk, and waved him into one of the two chairs opposite. There were cups and a teapot at one end of the desk, and he watched unthinkingly as Dumbledore poured two mugs of tea and passed one over to him. He cupped both hands round the mug, and felt the radiating heat of the tea gradually easing its way through his fingers. The rest of his body still felt cold and sluggish.

Dumbledore was adding sugar to his own tea, and Snape watched the gnarled fingers abstractedly. One ... two ... three spoonfuls of sugar, the slightly lopsided circles with which the tea was stirred, the soft _clink_ as the spoon was laid down on the saucer. The Headmaster took a sip of his tea, and then settled back in his chair, as if he had not a care in the world. Snape never noticed the closed, guarded expression in the light blue eyes.

"Now, Severus," Dumbledore said at last, "What can I do for you?"

It seemed too much effort to speak at first, and he sat there in silence for a few moments before he could bring himself to move. Then, slowly and deliberately, he removed the wand from his belt, holding it carefully by the middle instead of in the spell-casting position, and reached over to place it on the desk in front of Dumbledore, almost out of his own reach. 

"I wish to give myself up," he said.

Dumbledore said nothing. He did not pick up the wand, but his scrutiny of the young man before him became more intent. Snape tried to look him in the face but found he could not. After a moment he forced himself to continue.

"I have been doing terrible things," he said lifelessly. "I've been working for Lord Voldemort. I'm one of his Death Eaters - I've killed ... so many people." There was no answer, and Snape braced himself to tell the worst. "Headmaster ... I was one of those who destroyed the Welsh school."

He heard the sharp indrawn breath the Headmaster gave, felt him start to his feet - and when he looked up he saw Dumbledore standing over him, wand in hand, with eyes that blazed with cold fury. The force of his gaze had been painful even when it had signalled nothing but detached scrutiny; now it burned with barely-restrained power, with all the brightness of magnesium in the flame.

"You tell me this! You have the nerve to come _here_ - to _Hogwarts_ - and tell me you were involved in that massacre?"

"I came to surrender." He was mumbling, and some remote corner of his brain despised him for it.

"But you came _here._ Why? Did you need so badly to throw your guilt in my face?"

Snape stared at the ground. The anger and pain in the Headmaster's voice could be read all too clearly. He heard Dumbledore move towards him and then felt the tip of the wand pressed to his forehead. He tensed instinctively, and then relaxed. The fear of death that had held him back earlier had evaporated now. So much easier this way. So much quicker and cleaner.

"There are many who would kill you without a qualm for what you have just told me," Dumbledore said harshly. "Consider yourself fortunate that I am not one of them. I would not debase myself for the likes of you." The wand tip was removed, but Snape did not look up.

"Is it murder to destroy a mad dog?" he asked softly. "I would have done the same myself ... but I didn't have the courage."

"You are no dog, Severus. You _have_ the power to choose your actions - and with that power comes the responsibility for them. You have abused that power through your own choice, in the worst possible way. A mad dog would have more excuse for its actions." 

The Headmaster fell silent, and when he spoke again his voice was measured and even, the raw emotion it had displayed before held under tight control. "You should never have come here, Severus. Do you understand me? Had I known that you had been involved in any way in the destruction of Ysgol Hud Myrddin I would have had Hagrid take you straight to the Ministry. I would never have allowed you to set foot in Hogwarts or its grounds." He reached for a bell that stood on the desk beside him. "Unless you have anything further to say I will send for Hagrid now, and have him escort you to the Magical Law Enforcement Headquarters."

"Headmaster," Snape said quickly before he could allow himself to think better of it. "I need to ask - "

"A favour? After what you have told me, what right have _you_ to ask favours?" Again, that burning rage, laced with an icy contempt. Snape did not dare look at him, and Dumbledore sighed impatiently. "Ask if you must. You can hardly expect me to help you."

"L - Lily." He stumbled over the name awkwardly. "It was Lily who found out who - _what_ I was, Headmaster. She's gone to give me up - the Aurors are probably looking for me already. They'll want me to stand trial." He could see the anger in the Headmaster's eyes and burst out unhappily, "Don't mistake me, Headmaster - I'm not trying to escape justice ... I don't wish to." The words deserted him and he had to force them out. "Headmaster, I know too much. If I stand trial, anyone who testifies against me will be in danger - grave danger. Lily must _not_ testify against me. I'll give a full confession, with Veritaserum if you want - _anything_ - but don't let them place Lily - or anybody else - in danger because of me. I've damaged the world enough already. For my sake don't let my trial hurt anyone else."

He felt the Headmaster's eyes burning into him for what seemed an eternity. "And this is your only request? Why? What brought on this ... change of heart?"

He had to force himself to speak it, had to prise out every word from deep within himself to lay it before the Headmaster. The story sounded pathetic and inadequate in the cold light of day, a sorry, sordid, _shaming_ tale. That he had attempted to kill Lily, that he had not prevented his friends from killing the Muggles in the pub - was despicable and unjustifiable in ways that he had never realised before. 

"And those scratches on your face were of your own making?" It was not really a question.

"Yes." 

Dumbledore sighed softly. "If you told the Ministry what you have told me, you would _not_ be sent to Azkaban." He paused, seemed reluctant to continue. "You would be handed over to the Dementors to be executed." The distaste in his voice was clearly audible.

_The Dementor's Kiss..._ Snape drew in a anguished shuddering breath. So that was to be the penalty. However painful and drawn-out any death could be, it did at least mark an end. But this brought no end with it. Most, he imagined, would say that it was no more than he deserved. And were they wrong? He looked up and met the Headmaster's eyes, feeling once again that anomalous mixture of calm hopelessness that had been his companion in the hours before dawn. "So be it," he said softly. 

"You would not resist such a fate?"

"No." _My life is over. It hardly matters what becomes of me now. _"Just so long as you don't let them put Lily in danger for my sake - just so long as I don't get the chance to hurt anyone else. It's the least I can do."

"Then it is too little, too late." 

Snape flinched involuntarily, his body tensing in the face of the Headmaster's anger. "You say that it is the least you can do: you are _exactly_ right. There is much that you could have done for the world, had you chosen. But you chose instead to serve Voldemort" Dumbledore's voice rang out loud and resonant in the silent room, like the tolling of a bell, heard too close. "You have spent five years as a Death Eater. You know what you have done - you know how serious your crimes have been. Now you tell me you want me to hand you over to the authorities so that you can be executed - as if that could wipe out what you have done. But it is _not enough_, and it never could be, however terrible your punishment is_. _What reparation will that make to the families of those you have injured?"

"I - If I could make amends I would - but I can't - nothing can wipe out..." His voice trailed away. Pointless to protest to good intentions; stupid to protest at all, in that contemptible, self-pitying whimper. This was no more than he deserved, and less -- so much less - than many law-abiding wizards would have given him.

Dumbledore said nothing, and Snape could feel those terrible eyes boring into him, twin searchlights that pierced through him, exposing all the dark places of his mind in their pitiless glare. When the Headmaster spoke again the anger had left his voice: there was just pain - pain and a deep heartfelt grief. "Severus - child - what brought you to this? Why did you let yourself follow him?"

Dumbledore's anger had been hard to bear; his grief and disappointment were almost unendurable. Snape tried to find words - any words - in which to answer him, but there were none. He shook his head dumbly. His reasons had been so insufficient. Boredom, anger with the world, the unhealthy fascination with the Dark Arts that he had possessed since childhood. All inadequate. Stupid.

"I'm sorry," he whispered eventually, and the words felt like they had been dredged up from deep inside him.

Dumbledore was watching him again: he could feel the pressure of his gaze and shrank back into his chair, but the Headmaster's voice when he spoke was sad, gentle almost, devoid of either hostility or condemnation. "Severus, do you remember what I said to you, the night James Potter saved your life?"

He remembered, far too well.

(This room, eight years ago. Himself seated in this very chair, trying to hide the fear of what he had just witnessed behind an incandescent fury that deceived nobody. James Potter standing a little way from him, calm, collected, and oh so dignified - not at all like someone who had just risked his life to save his bitterest enemy. Dumbledore, sitting at his desk, looking from one to the other of them with a very serious expression, telling him that he should thank Potter for saving his life. His own angry refusal. Potter walking out, telling Dumbledore he wasn't bothered either way. And then Dumbledore turning to him with an expression even more serious, and telling him that he was in Potter's debt for the rest of his life. And when he laughed scornfully, saying that he'd have nothing to do with Potter if he could help it - )

"Yes. You told me that Potter had given me my life." He inhaled slowly, painfully, the tiny sound drowned by the utter silence of the room. All he could hear was his own heart, slowly beating its lopsided rhythms. "You told me to use it well, for my own sake, if not for his." _And if I had listened_ - "It's too late for that now."

"Is it? Yet you are here now." Dumbledore surveyed him speculatively over the top of the half-moon glasses. "Lily didn't go to the Aurors, you know. She came to me."

Snape lifted his head and stared at the Headmaster, uncomprehending. There was a heartbreaking sadness in the Headmaster's eyes, and something else. Something - calculating?

"James gave you your life; Lily has given you more even than that, if you choose to take it. And now you have surrendered to me. You have placed your life in my hands. If I were to give you a second chance now, would you use it well? For both your sake and mine."

Snape stared at him, bewildered. "Headmaster, you're looking at a murderer."

"Yes. You have been a murderer - but I'm not talking about the past, Severus. I'm talking about the future. The past _is_ past; what the future holds is up to you." 

_I have no future._

"I am not offering you freedom or mercy," Dumbledore continued, "and I _will_ not offer you death - you will still stand trial for your crimes either now or later, and pay the price for them. But if you truly _are_ sorry for what you have done - if you genuinely wish to make amends for your actions - then I can use your help."

"I - Yes," Snape whispered. "If I can do anything..."

"I want you to go back to Voldemort. I want you to spy for me."

Snape stared blankly for a moment at him in disbelieving horror. "You want me to - Oh God! I - " He whispered, and then stopped, fumbling for the words. "Headmaster, if I go back to _him.._. You don't understand, Headmaster, I'm not safe. You don't know how easy it would be for me to go back completely - to start killing again. I can't be trusted." He continued feverishly, the words pouring out in torrents. "You don't know what it's like, you've no idea - you can't have - what it's like when you _want_ to kill. It's like a fever in the blood, it's a constant itch somewhere at the back of the skull - it calls to you - and when you do it -" His voice trailed off, and it was a moment before he could continued, in an unsteady voice. "I didn't just kill because I was ordered, but because I enjoyed it. If I go back to that again - You don't know how easy it was ..." 

His voice cracked and he could feel tears - shameful, humiliating tears - rising up inside him, threatening to overflow. He stood up abruptly and half-ran, half-stumbled to the window, where he stared at the relentless rain outside as he strove to regain control of his face and voice. After a few seconds he felt a hand on his shoulder, and Dumbledore pulled him round to face him, staring into his face with bright, fierce eyes. "Do you wish to make amends for your actions or do you not? If you do, then do so. It is as simple as that."

"You don't understand! If I go back I'd probably be killing again within days. I - " he stopped, and swallowed awkwardly, willing his fragile self-control to stand firm.

"No. I don't think you would," Dumbledore said firmly. "You didn't come to me lightly, Severus. It wasn't self-interest or damage limitation that led you here." He reached out and touched, very lightly, one of the new scars that covered his former pupil's face. "It took a lot to bring you to me, didn't it?" he asked softly. "It caused you a lot of struggle and pain. Do you think that can be set aside so lightly? You're not who you were two days ago. Do you really think you could just - revert - without a struggle?" 

His voice became more urgent, and his grip on Snape's shoulder tightened perceptibly. "You've come this far, Severus. Don't give up now. If you truly desire to make amends then _do it_. I believe you can and I am giving you the chance to do so. Don't cast it away lightly." He removed his hand from Snape's shoulder and said to him in a softer voice, "You are not a dog. You _have_ the responsibility for your actions. Take it. Use it - and use it well." 

Snape stared at him, the fear naked in his eyes, fear not of the Dark Lord or the Dementors, but the far more potent fear - of himself. The Headmaster continued, in a detached, factual voice. "What I am asking of you will _not_ be easy. It will be dangerous and difficult, and, if you put a foot wrong, probably fatal. Think carefully before you decide. Take your time. If you still feel unable to help me, I will have you taken to the Ministry and let them deal with you. If you accept my offer ... well, we'll discuss this further." He returned to his chair leaving Snape standing alone at the window, staring out into the rain.

The grounds were not empty now. He could see three boys outside, crossing the lawn under the cover of a huge red golfing umbrella, their faces hidden under its shade. They walked slowly along, in the direction of Hagrid's cottage in the distance. Their robes were black; the robes at Ysgol Hud Myrddin had been the creamy white of unbleached wool. 

But for the accident of birth and language, they too might have been numbered among his victims.

"I don't deserve your kindness," he said bitterly. "I really do not deserve it." 

"This is not kindness. I need help that only you can provide, if you so choose. I am not offering you an easy task, or a safe one."

Snape continued to stare out of the window, looking over the top of the Forbidden Forest to the mist-veiled mountains beyond. _I wanted an end_, he thought dimly. _I wanted to be out of temptation's way - out of harm's way._ _And now..._

And now, he had a choice. On the one hand, the Ministry, and the Dementor's Kiss, the punishment that awaited him. On the other, the Dark Lord, and his own despicable past life, which by some miraculous alchemy he had to turn to good. And if he returned to the Dark Lord? Either the Dark Lord would catch him, subject him to torture or to whatever ingenious torment seemed most fitting, and, eventually, kill him - or the Hit Wizards would track him down, send him to the Ministry and have him executed. Looked at practically, there was very little to choose between them.

Except for one thing: the towering monument of Dumbledore's trust. 

It was unmerited, undeserved, _illogical_, and Snape was dimly aware that only a day before he would have despised the Headmaster for offering it. But it was warm - the only warm thing in a world that seemed suddenly all too cold. 

To be offered such unmerited trust -- to be given the opportunity, if not of redemption, then at least of making some partial amends - it was almost beyond belief. And at such a price! But was any price too high to pay for that trust?

The three children had gone, and for that he was grateful. To see their slight figures and ungainly gaits had twisted at his heart. If anything could prevent ...

"Yes," he said finally. "I can do it. I_ will_ do what I can." His voice sounded thin and feeble in his ears. He took a deep breath and attempted to pull himself together. "After all, I don't suppose you get potential spies every day," he said weakly.

For the first time that morning Dumbledore smiled, a fleeting bittersweet smile that touched his eyes only for the barest instant. "No ... I can't say that I do." And then it was gone, and his face settled back into its solemn mask. "Well done, Severus. And thank you."

Snape leant against the alcove of the window and shut his eyes for a moment, trying in vain to contemplate the enormity of the decision he had just made. Spy, undercover agent, saboteur. Traitor. Oath-breaker. 

No. It was too strange to take in -- too complex and alien, and he was so tired. He could feel the room spinning slowly round him, a tilting, disorienting spin that he always experienced when he'd missed a night's sleep. He opened his eyes and the feeling gradually receded as his eyes adapted protestingly to the light of day. 

There was a sudden flurry of wings from a corner of the room, and as he looked round, the phoenix, Fawkes, landed on his shoulder in a blaze of red and gold feathers. The phoenix looked down at him, examining him with bright, dark eyes, lively and inquisitive, tilting his head first one way and then the other, as if to view him from every angle. _Meet your master's newest acquisition, _he though wryly. _One Death Eater, slightly foxed._

Fawkes continued to scrutinise him closely and then lowered his head and let a single tear fall onto his forehead. He flinched, half expecting it to sting or burn, but it ran gently down his face with a touch as light and soft as summer rain. It brought memories with it, of her smile, and her trust, of the warmth of her hand in his. What had she ever seen in him? And, whatever it was, was it enough to help him now?

He raised his hands slowly to his face and touched where the scratches had been: the scars were gone, save for the faintest of raised lines. The phoenix took off again, and Snape felt the wing feathers brushing gently against his cheek as Fawkes flew back to his perch. 

He walked slowly back to his chair and flopped into it. "So what happens now?" he asked wearily.

"Now? Breakfast would seem like a good idea."

"Breakfast?"

"The first meal of the day. Generally considered the finest repast known to man or beast."

"I_ know_ what - " He stopped abruptly, realising he was being teased.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. There was a slight smile on his face. "That's more like it, Severus. I was beginning to wonder if you were an impostor after all. No - actually I was about to go down to breakfast when you arrived. I don't suppose you've eaten either." He picked up a small silver bell that stood on a table next to him and rang it twice. There was a soft popping sound and a tea-towel-clad house-elf appeared. It bowed low, its batlike ears almost brushing the carpet.

"Professor Dumbledore Sir?"

"Ah yes. Barky, isn't it? Could you provide breakfast for my guest here and myself?"

"At once, Professor Dumbledore. What foods is you wanting?"

"Whatever you have got left from breakfast, Barky."

The house-elf tilted its ugly head on one side, considering the request. "Eggs and bacon is all ate up, and the toast is not so good now. We can gets you good kippers, though, and we has fresh bread."

"That will do very well. Thank you. Oh, by the way ..." The house-elf, who had disappeared, popped suddenly back into the room. "My guest here ... You haven't seen him, you don't know him, and you guard his secrets as you would my own."

Barky's face took on a faintly affronted expression at this. "Of course, Professor Dumbledore," he said, and vanished once more. There was a distinctly reproachful tone in his voice.

House-elf service, it seemed, was very fast. A second later there was a soft _pop_ and a pair of plates appeared on the Headmaster's desk, each containing two kippers and thickly buttered bread rolls. A jug of milk and two empty glasses appeared a second later, and Dumbledore looked a touch embarrassed at this. 

"Ah. Perhaps I should have been more precise," he said. "I always drink milk with breakfast, and the house-elves have never quite realised that not everybody does the same." He picked up his own plate and passed the other to Snape, who took it absently. "Well, eat up, then. No point in letting good food get cold."

Snape ate the salty fish with mechanical obedience - it could have been anything for all he cared. He was vaguely aware that he hadn't eaten since the previous morning, but there was no hunger - he just felt tired and slightly sick. At least he was gradually beginning to feel warm again, and the grey haze through which he had been viewing the world began to dissipate, the room around him regaining the colour and definition it had always had. It occurred to him suddenly that he was indeed hungry, and he began to eat faster. He even drank some of the milk, savouring its slight sweetness, a quality he'd never even noticed it possessed before. 

He finished the food and set the plate back down on the desk. It vanished immediately.

"Better?" Dumbledore asked, and Snape nodded. "That's good." He thought for a moment, his fingers steepled under his chin. "I will ask you once more. Are you sure you are willing to spy for me?"

"Yes." He spoke quickly, allowing himself no time to think about the future. "Yes," he said again, more firmly. "I'll do whatever I can, whatever it costs me."

"Very well." Dumbledore regarded him narrowly over the top of the half-moon glasses. "Now, if you are ready," he said, "there's quite a bit I'd like to know. Would you mind answering some questions for me?"

Snape nodded. It occurred to him suddenly that this moment was the significant one - the moment of commitment, the final point at which he could turn back. He had agreed to help Dumbledore, but he had not yet done anything. If he spoke now he would be committed irrevocably to his new course of action.

At this point, if he so chose, he could weave Dumbledore such a web of lies as would set him and his vigilantes back years and send many of his most able helpers straight into the Dark Lord's hands. The Dark Lord would reward him greatly for turning such a situation to his advantage; Dumbledore would never even suspect him. If he played his cards correctly - and he would - he would escape both justice and retribution, from either side. 

Or, if he so chose, he could break the oaths he had sworn to his master, betray his secrets and many of his fellow Death Eaters, and then, almost certainly, be hunted down by the Dark Lord's security mages and killed, like the vermin he undoubtedly was. 

There was no question at all which option would be safer for him. He contemplated it for a short moment, and then rejected it, angry that it should even have occurred to him.

"You'll need Veritaserum, Headmaster," he said.

"No Veritaserum. It is your responsibility alone to speak truthfully or falsely as you will. I will not take that responsibility, or that choice, away from you. _I_ will then have the enviable task of deciding whether you have spoken truthfully or not."

Snape laughed incredulously. "You cannot be serious, Headmaster! Surely nobody in their right mind would accept my word without proof." He sighed in frustration. "Headmaster, I _insist_. I will say nothing unless ..."

His voice trailed away as he noticed, for the first time, the peacefully poised Sneakoscope in the exact centre of the mantelpiece.

"You ... That was ..."

"You see?" Dumbledore said gently. "The Sneakoscope has been there all along. If you had been attempting to deceive me at any point I would have known immediately. You did not."

_A fine spy you're getting, Headmaster, if he can't even notice what's right under his nose. _"Maybe not ... but - Headmaster, there are a hundred ways to fool those things - it was one of the first things the Death Eaters taught me. How do you know I didn't use a stasis spell on it when I first entered the room? Or a shielding charm on myself?"

"You didn't. I was watching you closely, and you have not had the opportunity to cast any spells since you entered the room. As to the shielding charms, I would hardly have been able to repair your cuts if you had been using one. And besides ... since you have only just noticed it was there - "

Snape looked dubiously up at the spinning object on the mantelpiece. In truth there were only six ways of fooling Sneakoscopes, five of which required a wand. Right now he did not have the strength for the sixth, even if he had wanted to. "All the same, Headmaster, I would prefer to use Veritaserum."

"Severus," Dumbledore said very seriously, "There will be no Veritaserum. It is unnecessary."

"No. It _is_ necessary - for my sake, not for yours. I don't want there to be any doubt about whether my word can be trusted or not. Your minions may not be as trusting as you are - I hope very much that they are not, for your sake." He fished in the pocket of the Muggle shirt, and brought out a tiny bottle, still there from the misadventures of the previous day. "Veritaserum," he said firmly. "I'm taking it, whether you will or no."

Dumbledore smiled at that, and, remarkably, there seemed to be warmth in his smile. "Very well, Severus, since you insist. But let me provide the potion." He went to a cabinet that stood beside his desk and returned a second later with a small bottle that was almost the double of Snape's, filled with a clear colourless liquid.

Snape took the bottle from him and inspected it with professional interest. It was not the best that could be had -- but it was not far off. He nodded approvingly and uncorked the bottle, noting the lack of odour, and then added three drops of the liquid to his now-cold cup of tea. He hesitated for a moment, and then added a further two, before stirring the tea with the thoroughness of the trained potioner. 

"You know it is unwise to exceed three drops, Severus," Dumbledore said. Snape made no acknowledgment of the comment and drank down the entire mug of tea.

It had always astounded him, how fast Veritaserum acted. He was still setting the cup down when the slight numbness it brought on began to steal over him. The light-headedness and lassitude followed a few seconds later.

"I am ready," he said in the flat emotionless tone that was symptomatic of Veritaserum at work, his speech slurring slightly as its grip over his mind and body tightened.

Dumbledore surveyed him closely for a long moment, his eyes dwelling on the mass of incongruous curly hair, tangled and matted with blood. "Very well," he said. "We'll start at the beginning, then. How did Voldemort's followers first make contact with you?"

* * *

The clock had just struck noon when he finished. Dumbledore had proved to be a thorough and methodical questioner, without any of the artifice, the swift changes of subject, the sudden bursts of hostility, that a Death Eater would have found essential for interrogation. It seemed he had an interest in everything: the organisation and hierarchies of the Death Eaters, their modus operandi, the locations in which they met. In particular he asked a lot about their recruitment procedures and how the recruits were trained. It occurred to Snape for the first time how little the outside world knew of the Dark Lord and his followers.

The Veritaserum had worn off a little under half an hour before, as Dumbledore had been asking about the raids in which Snape had participated, leaving him to struggle through the words without the potion's help. Only once had Dumbledore stopped him, and that was when the subject of the Welsh school came up. "I don't need to know the details," he'd said, sounding upset and tired. "Just give me the names of those involved. Nothing more."

It had been a relief - it had been beyond relief - when Dumbledore had declared that he had heard enough. His face was bleak and forbidding, and Snape was reminded anew of the brutality of his past.

They sat in silence some minutes before Dumbledore finally spoke, still with that stern, forbidding expression on his face. "There are two conditions," he said, "under which you undertake this for me. The first is that you do not kill by any means, whether magical or not." Snape opened his mouth to speak but Dumbledore held up a hand. "No, it will not be easy - I do not know how you will get round this prohibition when you are working for Voldemort, but you _must _find a way. You have the intelligence and ingenuity to do this - and do it you must. There must be no more deaths by your hand." Snape bowed his head in acceptance. "As to the other two Unforgivable Curses - I imagine that they are not so easily avoidable. Nonetheless I would ask you not to use them, if any alternative at all is available. Remember that each time you use one of them, you are committing an unforgivable act against your victim, and one that will be laid to your account should you ever stand trial.

"The second condition is this: that you must never enter Hogwarts or its grounds again - under any circumstances. I dare say this will be an inconvenience both to you and myself. I will find other ways to make contact with you, and you will abide by those. Do you understand me?"

Snape nodded, mute. _All too clearly, Headmaster._

"There is one other matter," Dumbledore said briskly. "If you should be killed - "

_'When', headmaster, 'when'._ "If I die, headmaster, tell Lily ... Thank her for me. Tell her that what she did was not in vain."

"Certainly, Severus. And your family? Do you want them to know that you have been spying for me?"

"Nero and Aggie? Tell them if you wish. I don't suppose for a moment that they'll care." He could imagine their reactions. Nero, plump and suited, saying in his plummy faux-aristocratic voice: "Was he really? How very singular. Well, Severus always was a law unto himself." Agrippina, waspish and acidic: "A double agent! Well, I knew Sevvie was stupid -- but I never thought he'd be _that_ stupid."

"As you wish. Is there nobody else whom you would wish to tell?"

"No... Nobody." It was probably symptomatic of the emptiness of his life or something equally telling, but Snape found he didn't particularly care. If Dumbledore noticed the one obvious omission he did not comment on it.

"Very well. Then we had better -" Dumbledore stopped abruptly as he saw Snape tense, heard him gasp in pain. "Are you all right?"

Snape clutched convulsively at his left arm, feeling it shake under his touch. The summoning - he was so used to it that it scarcely even registered - had never felt like this before. He gritted his teeth as the pain flooded through him in waves. "The Dark Lord's summoning us," he choked out. "If I don't go he'll-" 

"One moment. May I see?"

Snape pulled up his sleeve impatiently, and Dumbledore examined the mark in silence for a few seconds. He even touched it, very gently, with a long forefinger, and watched as the young man flinched and wrenched his arm away.

"_Very _interesting. Thank you, Severus - I won't keep you longer."

"So what do I do now?" He could hear the edge of panic in his voice, and despised himself for it. _Childish, Sev, childish. Get a grip on yourself._

"Just act normally," Dumbledore said calmly. "Obey all orders and don't take any risks. Don't make contact with me, or anyone else: I'll be in touch with you as soon as I can." He stood up from behind the desk and picked up Snape's wand, and then gathered Snape's cloak from the hat stand. He handed them back to him as they reached the doorway. "Whatever you do, be careful ... And good luck."

Snape turned to go, unaware of Dumbledore staring after him as he descended the stairs. 

* * *

Dumbledore stood in the doorway watching, long after his former pupil had disappeared from view. It was quite possible that he had just made the gravest mistake of his entire career. 

He had just sent a young man with a violent past into a situation where he would be surrounded by violence, and was expecting him - somehow - to keep himself untouched by it. It was as foolish as sending a recovering alcoholic to work at a brewery, and as cruel. And here, too, the stakes were so much higher. If they had not needed that information so badly - if anybody else at all had been available - 

God knew, the situation was bad enough. The Ministry, if they would only admit it, were all but on their knees, and the Irregulars (as he called his small band of vigilantes) had suffered heavy losses over the last few months. They'd tried, repeatedly, to plant spies among Voldemort's supporters. Three of them had wound up dead within weeks; the fourth had tried to assassinate him under the influence of the Imperius Curse. The spies they did have were all on the edges: people who lived in the shadows, but who, for whatever reason, were willing to pass on what little they knew - overheard conversations in dingy pubs, cryptic scraps of parchment, thirdhand gossip.

Well, now he had his spy. He'd learnt more in one morning than in the entire previous ten years, and he'd sent the boy back to learn more for him. But what he had set in motion, he had no idea. 

He sighed and shook his head. What was done, was done. Too late to worry about it now.

"Knut for your thoughts, dear," said a voice at his elbow, and he turned and smiled weakly in the direction of the voice as his companion removed her invisibility spell.

"Arabella! I'd almost forgotten you were there." The woman who had appeared by his side was a short elderly witch dressed in Muggle clothes with a hearing aid in one ear. The bird-like frailty of her build was belied by the shrewd cynicism of her face, and the assurance with which she handled her wand, which was still pointing through the open doorway. "Actually I was just wondering if I was the greatest fool in wizardry."

Arabella took the door handle from him and shut the door firmly on them. "Not really. Just a little more trusting than is generally considered wise in this wicked world. Alastor and I usually manage between us to keep you from making an idiot of yourself, but today - "

"Yes," Dumbledore said heavily. "Today. That's exactly the point. I have no idea what exactly I have unleashed on the world. But to send him to the Dementors-" He sighed. He had not moved from the doorway so Arabella took his arm and steered him to a chair in front of the fire, pushing him into it with strength that her tiny frame did not reveal she possessed. "Arabella, you know how I opposed the use of the Dementor's Kiss. I would not have it used on anyone. No - not even on Voldemort himself."

"I think I can safely say you're in a minority there," Arabella remarked drily. "Most people would be quite happy to have the likes of your young friend summarily despatched."

"I cannot agree. It solves nothing, just as Azkaban solves nothing. Oh yes - it gratifies our desire for revenge, but revenge does not heal us, and it cannot help those whom we have lost. Throwing them into Azkaban does not make our criminals less criminal, and it does not prevent the recurrence of the crimes we are punishing." He gazed thoughtfully into the fire, as if trying to trace the outlines of a better world in its embers. "I would sooner see them freed of whatever pushes them towards the dark. I would have them put their crimes behind them and rebuild their lives on a sounder basis - willing to help those whom they have injured, and cancel out their debts by more reliable means than imprisonment. I would have them rise, phoenix-like, from their own ashes into more worthy lives."

Arabella took the other chair by the fire, and, removing her glasses, polished them thoughtfully. There was an unexpected tenderness in her face. "I know, Albus. You would heal the world, if you could. And I honour you for it. But it's not possible - people don't change. Not in any fundamental way."

"Don't they, Arabella? Do you really believe that?" 

There was no answer to that. Arabella said nothing.

"I didn't trust him when he came into the room, Arabella. I'm not so sure that I do now. You certainly don't - I can see it in your face. But Fawkes did. That is what is so remarkable: Fawkes trusts him."

"Hmm..." Arabella turned and scrutinised the bright red and gold bird, who looked back at her with intelligent amusement. "I'm not sure I agree with your judgement on this one, young man." She turned back the Headmaster, and was relieved to see that he looked less upset. "That kid. Tell me, what was he like when he was here? You must have known him when he was a student here."

Dumbledore pondered this for a moment. "Oh yes. I'm afraid he was a most unpromising child. Objectionable, arrogant, defensive, very vindictive. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of hexes and their uses - and, I'm afraid, he used it. His first action on arriving here was to establish himself as somebody you didn't push around. Within his first month he'd duelled - and beaten - every single bully in his own house, and a couple in the other houses." 

"A bully himself, then?"

"Not really. He didn't push around those weaker than himself, but that was only because it was more challenging to bring down his equals - or his superiors. I lost track of the amount of times he and young Sirius Black got into fights with each other."

"And when Voldemort first appeared?" 

"Well ... that surprised me somewhat, especially given the suspicions about his father. Severus wasn't one of the loud Voldemort supporters that some of the Slytherins were - we kept a very careful eye on those, as you can imagine. He had an almost psychopathic indifference to it. 'People die all the time. What difference does it make?' He seemed to have no sense of the way the world should be."

"So - one of those. I know them well." Her smile was bittersweet, heavy with hundred-year-old memories.

"And his friends too ... All of them now serving Voldemort. There are times, Arabella, when I wonder if I have failed completely in my duty to the world. We always take such trouble with the Slytherins, as you know."

Arabella smiled grimly. "I know. Back in the 1860s we were left pretty much to chance. That's why there's been so much trouble this century. At least you and Vindictus do what you can."

"Well, we did take precautions in this case - and they failed, dismally. You remember that he mentioned Evan Rosier as one of the Death Eaters?"

"The one who died back in January? Yes."

"Well, he was always one of the more ... dependable ... Slytherins. He was illegitimate, but his father, I believe, came from an old Hufflepuff family. Professor Viridian and I encouraged him to mix with Severus' crowd because we thought he might be a good influence on them - and now I find that he, too, joined Voldemort."

"Yes. Well ... Who knows what lies underneath? After all, you hardly expected young Severus to turn up here this morning, did you." 

"Well, no. I must say I didn't" Dumbledore pulled out a red and white spotted handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "You know, I can safely say that that was one of the most tiring mornings of my entire life."

"I'm not surprised, Albus. It looked hard work." Arabella chuckled grimly. "Birth is a messy business; rebirth doubly so."

"If you say so, Arabella. I'm not sure I'd have put it quite like that."

Arabella removed her glasses and polished them pensively on the corner of her cardigan. "You know," she said thoughtfully, as she resettled them on her nose. "That was most disconcerting. Every time I looked at him, I could have sworn I was seeing Kezia. If it weren't for his height he'd be her very image. Particularly with that hair of his - so exactly like hers."

"You knew Severus' mother?" Dumbledore looked abruptly across at his companion, who merely polished her glasses at him again. 

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "After Grindelwald was killed I spent three years in Israel, working for a Muggle charity in Jerusalem. The Israeli magical community have almost nothing to do with the Muggles, so I saw very few of our lot out there. I ran into Kezia quite by chance, just after I arrived there. She'd have been about sixteen, and running a bit wild - passing herself off as a Muggle and the like - all the things pure-blood kids do to annoy their parents. Very proud, with a terrible temper - as hot-blooded as they come. I'd have said she was the last person in the world you'd expect to marry a Snape."

There was a long silence, as the two ancient magicians both thought their own thoughts. The fire was burning low, and Dumbledore used a charm to transfer another log onto it. 

It was Arabella who spoke first.

"She's a most remarkable young lady, isn't she, that Lily Potter."

"Oh yes. She always was. She has this - knack - of altering the world. Lily can change people simply by meeting them in the street. Even Voldemort can't do that."

"Did she _know_ what would happen, do you suppose?"

"You mean, when she asked me to wait until the morning before calling the Ministry? Yes, I've been wondering that as well." He sighed, but this time there was no sadness in it. "As to that ... well, I suspect we'll never know."

* * *

Four minutes late. 

The school grounds were empty again, as the rain continued to fall steadily. Snape had chosen a path that was not overlooked by the castle, and started down it, forcing himself not to break into a run. The soil underfoot was thick and miry, clogging the treads of the heavy Muggle boots. A momentary flash of recollection reminded him that this was a path he had once walked with Lily. He lengthened his stride and continued, seeing the cover of the Forbidden Forest ahead.

Nine minutes late. 

Once he reached the cover of the forest, he allowed himself to run, trying to calculate as best he could the quickest route to the edge of the grounds. Branches whipped at his face, dripping brambles caught at his cloak, and the evergreen leaves he brushed past sent cascades of water over him. He was drenched again by the time he reached the school boundary, and stepped over it, panting at the unaccustomed effort.

Twelve minutes late.

He disapparated the moment he crossed the perimeter, back to his home. He threw his robe on, over the top of the Muggle clothes and (though he knew he could ill spare the time) rubbed a handful of neat Sleekeazy through his hair until it lay flat and greasy. Then he threw on his mask and hood, before finding he'd mislaid his gloves. He searched hastily round the room, finally locating them in the pocket of the Muggle jacket he'd worn the previous day. The burning in his arm grew more intense, and he put the gloves on hurriedly.

Sixteen minutes late.

He snatched his wand up and then disapparated again.

He had miscalculated the apparition slightly, and landed almost directly in front of Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord turned and looked intently at him, his face blank and unreadable.

"Master - I regret my lateness!" Snape burst out, trying to get his breath back. He came forward and prostrated himself before his former master. 

"Rise." He did. "Why are you late?" He stammered something inadequate about a potion coming to the boil, aware that he was explaining too much, repeating himself. 

Somebody in the circle sniggered, and he recognised Lestrange's voice. It was not hard to guess what Lestrange was thinking. 

The Dark Lord was looking piercingly at him. "I think not." He let the words linger in the air as he surveyed the young man in front of him. Snape tried to keep his mind blank, squashing down the fear that kept intruding. "I do believe our young friend's been out wenching. Just look at him."

Belatedly, he took stock of his appearance. He was out of breath, and his robe was already creased and sweaty. His mask was so crooked it was a wonder he could see out of it. Gauging their master's mood, the other Death Eaters laughed. To his shame, he could feel himself going red. Unbidden, Lily's face came into his mind. The Dark Lord was still looking intently at him.

"A red-haired young lady, is she not?" he said casually.

_How dare he!_ A wave of incoherent rage washed over him, bitter resentment at the intrusion. He embraced it instinctively, drew it around himself like an invisibility cloak, the first layer of defence around a storm-damaged soul. Lord Voldemort started to laugh, a low amused chuckle at his outrage.

"That is better, my young friend. Pleasant as such diversions undoubtedly are, you should not allow them to stand in the way of your duty. Take your place in the circle, and let us begin. We have much to do."

He took himself to his place, holding on to his anger as to a life raft. Only safely within the anonymity of the circle did he let himself relax. He was back, he was safe, and he was not suspected. Yet.

All he had to do now was the impossible. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


PERPETRATOR'S NOTE:

Dagnab it. The moment I post this I start finding mistakes in it. This should be fixed now.

A thousand thanks to Earthwalk, my beta-reader, for catching the typos, & for her general encouragement & moral support - much appreciated as ever. Also, particularly, for correcting my Hagrid-speak. Go and read her fic if you haven't already. One of the best Snapefics out there - probably _the_ best.

[portentously] Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.

Right. Here endeth the first section of _The Long Road to Damascus_. As from ch. 5, 'Nocturnes', things should start to get interesting, as we see how Snape adapts (or otherwise) to his new role, and several of the supporting characters start to make their presences felt, in one way or another. We even get (shock horror!) the beginnings of a plot.

A few notes: the whole 'Snape as recovering alcoholic' analogy was first made by a poster on alt.fan.harry-potter way, way back, shortly after GoF was published. I don't know who by, but I am deeply grateful to that person because the analogy was the thing which directly inspired this fic.

The Irregulars: after Sherlock Holmes's unofficial helpers, the Baker's Street Irregulars. But I shouldn't need to tell y'all that.

The Excoriatus Curse: Ooh nasty. Not difficult to guess what it does.

I'm afraid I have a blind spot where thinking up house-elf names is concerned. 'Barky' is actually the name of a firm that manufactures lab equipment.

Some of you may spot a slight deviation from canon chronology at one point. This will be explained in a future ep. Trust me, grasshoppers: I have my reasons.

Review, please! I love my reviewers! (I know it's undignified to grovel, but I don't care. I've worked hard on this.)

  
  
  



	5. Nocturnes I

THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS 

by Morrighan

  
  


DISCLAIMER: If JKR came up with it first, it's not mine. It's as simple as that. 

CENSOR: R. 

A/N: This is by way of being a set of six short nocturnal interludes before we get back into the thick of things. Only they got a bit long, so the first half of the ep appears in ch. 5, and the second half in chapter 6.

  
  
  
  
  
  
PART 5: Nocturnes I  


1.

Monday December 1, 1980, 10.30 PM. The Rookery, Seepurse Lane, Thurso. 

The wireless crackled restlessly through its tinny music, and Billy MacPherson looked up from his book (a trashy murder mystery entitled _The Muggle of St Mungo's_) and used a rotating charm to adjust the dial. It made little difference: the wireless had crackled intermittently ever since his five-year-old nephew Ruari had dropped it in the neighbours' pond last spring.

The children had been put to bed two hours ago, and the house was now silent, save for the slightly fuzzy voice of the wireless with its staticky interruptions. Billy's brother, Bob and his wife were out for the evening, visiting friends near Wick, and Billy had stayed in to babysit Elspeth and Ruari, their two youngest children.

The wireless's crackling had quietened down again, and the announcer came on the air

"...And now we bring you, live from the Paracelsus Hall, Edinburgh, the renowned pianist Gerhard Spinnet, playing the Sonatas and Interludes for Charmed Piano by Johannes Käfig..." 

Billy grimaced and turned the wireless off quickly. Käfig's bizarre experiments as to the musical effects of various inappropriate charms on a grand piano was definitely numbered among the strangest musical works of wizarding history. Opinion was divided as to whether the composer was a madman or a genius, but most of the wizarding world inclined to the former opinion, Billy among them.

The wireless silenced, he turned back to his book, pushing his armchair slightly further from the fireplace, where a large and very vigorous fire burnt fiercely. He'd let the children toast marshmallows on it earlier - under careful supervision of course - and the room was still full of the smell of caramelised sugar.

He had just returned his attention to the book when he was surprised by a soft popping sound from the fireplace, accompanied by the subtle but distinct change in the timbre of the fire's roar. He glanced up quickly, and saw that the head sitting in the nest of flames was that of his old Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, his long beard draped untidily over the logs below. He felt an involuntary pang of anxiety - nobody ever called this late unless it was an emergency - and his thoughts flew inevitably to his eldest nephew, Callum, who had started at Hogwarts that September.

"Good evening, Billy." The Headmaster's voice was cheerful, as it usually was, but Billy noted that his manner was unusually brisk and businesslike.

"Professor Dumbledore! I'm afraid Bob and Kirsty are both out at the moment. It's not about Callum, is it?"

The Headmaster gave him a wide smile. "Oh, goodness, no. Young Callum's fine -- he's settling in very well, from what I've heard. In fact he got his first detention two days ago - for starting a water fight in the Great Hall, I do believe." He paused, and surveyed Billy with mild interest. "Actually, Billy, it was you I wanted to see. Can you come over to Hogwarts for a few minutes?"

"Well ... I'm afraid I can't right now," Billy said, wondering what Dumbledore could possibly need _his_ help for. "I'm babysitting for Kirsty, so I can't leave the children here alone. But you're welcome to come over here if it's urgent."

"Thank you. I will, if I may. I just need to ask you a favour, so I won't be long."

The connection was broken, and Billy put his book aside, never taking his eyes off the fireplace.

A few seconds later the crackling of the fire changed to a sound like rushing wind and the flames flared up in emerald green plumes as the rotating figure of the headmaster appeared in it. He stepped out of the fireplace and started to brush the ash off his clothes, his expression rueful. "I can't say I care much for travelling by Floo power," he said.

"Oh, nor do I," said Billy fervently. As far as he was concerned, travelling by the Floo Network was about as enjoyable as Apparition, and even worse than broomstick flight. Rather belatedly he remembered his duties as host. "Er ... Do sit down. Can I get you a drink?"

"No, thank you, Billy. As I said, I won't be staying long." He glanced around him at the MacPhersons' sitting room, and his eyes fixed on the Foeglass on the wall. "I see you've got one of those. That's very wise. Kirsty's idea, I suppose."

Billy glanced up at it automatically, noting its cloudy face. "I suppose so. Bob says they're unnecessary, but Kirsty insisted."

"She's quite right. You would be wise to get into the habit of checking it if I were you. I could have been anyone, couldn't I?"

"But surely -"

"You cannot afford to make assumptions, Billy. Not at the moment. Anyway," Dumbledore looked through his half-moon glasses at Billy's good-natured, open face, as if measuring him, weighing him up. "As I said before, there is something I need you to do for me, if you are able to." Billy looked at him expectantly, trying to look serious in spite of the multicoloured woolly sweater and fluffy rabbit slippers he was wearing. "But there is a condition. I need you to do it, as far as possible, without asking questions. You'll have to take it on trust that I know what I'm doing. You will also need to observe absolute secrecy."

"Oh ... well," Billy said doubtfully. "I mean, I'd be happy to help you if I can, of course I would. After all, you're doing so much for the magical world."

Dumbledore twinkled at him. "I'll be blushing in a minute, Billy," he said, and Billy grinned. "What I need you to do is something very simple," he continued. "You work at Skowers, don't you? Do you know Severus Snape?"

"Yes. He's my boss, actually."

"Do you like him?"

Billy thought for a moment, furrowing his brow in concentration. You really didn't think of Mr Snape in terms of 'like' or 'dislike'. "Well ... I don't know that I'd say 'like', exactly. I mean, he can be quite ..." He searched for a suitable adjective. "...touchy at times," he said. "But we get on okay," he added hastily, as if reluctant to make even such guarded criticism.

"I see," and Billy noticed that Dumbledore was suddenly looking very serious. "Well, I need to know if anything unusual happens in that quarter: unexplained absences, unusual behaviour - anything like that. Anything at all, no matter how minor or irrelevant it seems. You won't need to follow him about or anything melodramatic like that. It will simply be a matter of watching. Nothing more."

"Oh. He's not in any kind of _trouble_, is he?"

"I can't answer that," Dumbledore said quickly, uncomfortably conscious that his words were true in ways that Billy would never suspect.

Billy gave him a doubtful look, perhaps half perceiving the undercurrents in the Headmaster's voice. "Oh. Sorry. I shouldn't have asked." Then he remembered his boss's peculiar behaviour four days before and hesitated. That was probably the exact sort of thing the Headmaster wanted to know. "There is something..." he said hesitantly, and told Dumbledore how Snape had walked out of Skowers suddenly on the Friday afternoon.

"Did you tell anyone about this?"

"No. I shouldn't have done, should I?" The Headmaster said nothing, and Billy, watching him doubtfully, could not read his face. "I mean, he really did look ill, and if I'd said anything at work it would probably have got him into trouble. Bad trouble. I mean, he's not exactly popular there. And he may have threatened me, but he didn't actually do anything..." His voice trailed away and he stared at the Headmaster. "Was I wrong?"

It was Dumbledore's turn to hesitate, though he did it with considerably more finesse and less transparency than his companion. "That, I am afraid, I do not know, though I suspect it makes no difference. But in future, I would like you to inform me quickly if anything like that occurs." 

"Okay. Certainly. Is that all you need me to do?"

"Yes. It's just a watching brief, Billy. You won't actually be doing anything out of the ordinary - and you certainly won't be placing yourself at risk."

"I'm not afraid of danger - if you wanted me to do anything else." Billy said, and there was an inflection in his voice that sounded almost wistful. Dumbledore smiled quietly to himself, remembering his own twentieth year. _Even amid the dangers of our age_, he thought sadly_, our children retain their innocence_.

"Not for yourself, I daresay. But you have your brother's family to consider as well as yourself, remember."

"Yes ..." Billy said thoughtfully. "That's true. I wouldn't put them at risk for anything." Then he sighed, looking uncharacteristically solemn. "But I suppose that's a bit selfish, isn't it? I mean, when everyone's in danger anyway." He fell silent, pondering this unfamiliar dilemma.

"Yes," Dumbledore said gently. "It's a difficult choice to make, and an uncommonly thankless one. But at the moment I don't require you to make it. That time may well come in the future, but for now I merely need information from you."

"Yes. I suppose - but -" Whatever Billy had been about to say, he visibly changed his mind about it, and all he said was,"So, how do I make contact with you if anything happens? Surely I don't just send an owl to Hogwarts?"

"No. You have an aunt in Hogsmeade, don't you? A Madam Bell. Her husband's a writer, I believe."

"Aunt Catriona? Yes. She's my great-aunt actually. I don't see her or Uncle Ellis very often, I'm afraid. So do you mean-?"

"Do you write to her at all."

"Sometimes. Not as often as I should, I'm afraid."

"Good. Then all you need to do is address the letters to her, and I will make arrangements to have them forwarded on to Hogwarts. If you consider anything particularly urgent, send a letter direct to Hogwarts, but use a Post Office owl, not your own. It's only a few hours from here to Hogwarts. Or from Aberdeen to Hogwarts, if it comes to that."

"Oh. Okay. That sounds simple enough."

"That's good. But I must remind you that you cannot afford to tell anybody what you're doing - not even your own family."

"Yes. I understand that," Billy said. "I'm just glad I can help. Only ... it does seem a bit disloyal. Almost like - well - _spying_."

"Billy," Dumbledore said firmly, "I have my reasons, and if it was in my power to tell you them, I would. As it is, I can only ask you to trust me. Rest assured that I would never ask you to do anything dishonourable or disloyal for me."

It was the authority in Dumbledore's voice that Billy accepted, as much as the words themselves. "Oh yes. Of course. Sorry. I'm quite happy to do anything for you. I don't need to know what it's all about."

Only a Hufflepuff, Dumbledore reflected, would be happy to place such trust in another's sense of right. This wall of secrecy would never have been acceptable to the likes of Sirius Black or Tulip Mortlake. "Well, then, I suppose I'd best be off back to Hogwarts, to see what chaos has been evolving in my absence." 

Both men stood up, and Dumbledore stepped towards the fireplace. "I'll be going then. The best of luck, Billy." 

Billy nodded, his face thoughtful. "Thanks. I'll be in touch."

Dumbledore reached into his pocket and removed a small glass salt-cellar, and Billy watched him curiously as he shook a small amount of the powder out into the palm of his hand before throwing it onto the fire. The flames sprang up instantly, green and luminous, with warm, forest-scented breath. "Headmaster's study, Hogwarts," he called softly, and then stepped into the fire, the green flames winding tendril-like around him as if in welcome. 

Billy called a farewell, but just before the powder carried him away, Dumbledore turned to him once more, half stepping out of the fireplace again. "Oh, and one other thing ... Watch his back for me, will you?" Before Billy could respond he was gone.

Billy stood before the empty fire for a moment and then sat down again, his pudgy face perplexed and slightly anxious, his head buzzing with unasked - and unaskable - questions.

  
  
  
  
  
  


2. 

Thursday December 4, 1980, 11.30 PM. The Giant's Head, Naze Alley, Cardiff.

"He's doing _what_?" 

Lucrezia Lestrange's voice rose in righteous indignation. Virgil Avery, who had just taken a mouthful of Ogden's, spluttered it over the discoloured pine table.

"I'm not kidding - it's true!" Lestrange said, setting down his tankard and thumping Avery hard on the back. "He as good as admitted it, didn't he, Wilko?"

"Damn right." Wilkes gave a knowing leer and took another mouthful of mead. "Never thought he had it in 'im meself."

They were in a private room at the back of the Giant's Head, hired by Felix Lestrange for the evening. Most of Lestrange's guests had gone now, the Death Eaters lingering a little while after the more innocuous guests, and now it was only the four of them, left in possession of the large chamber. It was a well-designed room, ideally suited for transacting confidential business. The walls and door were panelled with magic-resistant rowan, meaning that most methods of eavesdropping or trap setting were impossible.

"She'd have to be blind," Avery said thoughtfully. "Or desperate."

"Oh yeah. Just picture it: Severus Snape, God's gift to womankind."

It was Lucrezia's turn to choke on her drink. "Do you mind," she said indignantly. "There are some things I prefer not to contemplate."

"I know, love. Too revolting," Lestrange said, looking wistfully at his empty tankard.

There was a soft tap on the door, and Lestrange called "Enter!" It was the pub's landlord, Marcel Quirke, a tall, cadaverous man with a hunched back and the face of a melancholy bloodhound.

"Anyfing more I can do for you, guv'nor?" he enquired lugubriously. "Only I'm about to call last orders."

Lestrange glanced down again at his tankard, carefully avoiding his wife's eye, which contained a clear negative. 

"Don't mind if I do, actually. Just a pint of mead for me."

"No, he doesn't," Lucrezia said briskly. "It's your turn to feed Trident when we get home, remember?"

"Damn. I'd forgotten. Sorry, Quirke - duty calls, as always."

His wife smiled sweetly at him, a smile that made the other occupants of the room feel distinctly uneasy. Trident was a manticore, and Lucrezia's pride and joy. He had been a coming-of-age gift from her father, procured from God alone knew where. How she controlled the beast was a mystery, even to her husband - manticores were renowned for the uncontrolled savagery of their natures - but the fact remained that in Lucrezia's hands, Trident was as meek and biddable as a lamb. 

"Not for me, then. Can't disobey the missus," Lestrange said regretfully. "We should be going soon anyway. Paul? Virgil?"

Avery shook his head - he still had half a tumbler of firewhisky left - but Wilkes looked up eagerly. "Go on then - twist my arm. Shove another in there for me, Marcy."

Quirke collected the empty tankards and glasses in silence, and returned a minute later with a tankard of metheglin for Wilkes. Only when the door had shut firmly behind him did conversation resume.

"So what are you going to do about it?" Lucrezia asked, her voice steely.

"Oh ... well, you know ..." Lestrange gave a deliberately vague smile. "I'm still pondering that one. Can't rush into these things, can we?"

Avery gave Lestrange a speculative glance. "Well, no. But seriously - are you going to tell the master?"

"Oh yes," Lestrange's voice was light-hearted, but there was an unfamiliar tension to it that the others had never heard there before, as if he was holding some powerful emotion in check. "But not straight away. I've waited for this for years, you know. I can afford to wait a little longer - until it's _really_ going to damage him.

"Oh right? And suppose someone else got there before you?"

Lestrange laughed, and the sound was innocent and boyish -- a_ charming _laugh. "Good heavens, Virgil," he exclaimed. "Do you mean you'd _like_ Amelia to find out about your affair with the Rathbone witch?" 

"Good point. Forget I spoke." There was a slight smile on his face. Lucrezia gave him a suspicious glance, and made a mental note to have a quiet word with her husband in the near future. You never crossed an Imperius specialist, _ever_. And certainly not as one as accomplished as Virgil Avery. They had far too many ways of hitting back.

"I mean, that's the annoying thing about Sev," Lestrange went on, seemingly oblivious. "The bastard just has no vices-"

"You mean, apart from mass-murder."

"You know what I mean, Wilko. I mean normal ones. The master isn't really going to complain about mass-murder, is he? But Sev - he doesn't smoke, he rarely even drinks, he doesn't gamble, embezzle, get into duels, blackmail, rape underage girls - or boys for that matter - and I'm almost certain he isn't doing anything ... recreational ... with those potions of his. Hell, a guy needs his hobbies. It's actually quite nice to know he's human after all."

_Oh yes. So that you can use it against him_, Avery thought sardonically. _Blackmailers are always so predictable._ He drained his glass of Ogdens and sighed in satisfaction_._ "Well guys, much as I've enjoyed this, I really must be going now," he said out loud. "There's an audit I've got to finish before tomorrow."

"Gee whizz! Must be fascinating, being an accountant."

Avery smirked. "It pays, Wilko. It definitely pays. Much better than ... wireless repair, isn't it?" Wilkes glared at him, but Avery's face was expressionless. "Anyway, I'd better be getting home to the fair Amelia. So long, folks."

"Bye then," Lestrange called as he reached the door. "Keep those numbers moving."

Avery left the chamber and shut the door firmly after him, a faint and rather pensive smile on his face. Yes, Mugglish reputation notwithstanding, accountancy definitely had its uses. 

Embezzlement, for example. Funny that Felix should mention that, wasn't it? It looked simple enough in theory, but in practice it left a paper trail a mile wide, if you knew what you were looking at. If Felix Lestrange was going to push him about, he'd soon be finding himself in a _very_ sticky situation at work. Not to mention the considerable dangers inherent in Lucrezia's wrath. 

The pub was just starting to empty out: on the quieter weekday evenings people didn't tend to linger. Besides, this was a pub where _business_ was transacted. Avery started to make his way over to the door, ignored by the few remaining drinkers: a party of hags at the large corner table, and two men at the bar whom Avery recognised as Owain Pritchard, the safe-breaker and his brother Dewi.

"Goodbye Mr Avery, sir," Marcel Quirke called softly from behind the bar. "Mind you go carefully now."

"Goodnight," Avery called in reply. A change appeared to have come over him since he had Lestrange's hired room. His voice, which in the private room had held a lively, mocking note, now sounded monotonal and self-effacing. His stride had shortened and his shoulders rounded slightly, his arms held close to his body as if reluctant to intrude on the world's personal space, his eyes slightly downcast as though too timid to look it in the face. He made his way to the door and opened it, and then, with body language more effective than any invisibility cloak, he stepped out into the world outside.

Avery allowed himself a small smile as he closed the door behind him. Perhaps he was dull, perhaps he was grey and boring and inconspicuous - all the things people thought he was. Well, that suited him just fine. 

After all, it was one of his greatest weapons.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


3.   
  


Saturday December 6, 1980, 8.30 PM. Flat 3, 121 Marlborough Road, Cheltenham

_Bzzzzt_.

Arabella looked up from her work in annoyance as the door bell to her flat sounded. Of all the times for a Muggle visitor-! She had papers and scrolls - most of them highly sensitive - spread all over her writing desk, and a caller now would mean having to hide them all away and risk losing her place completely.

_Bzzzzzzzzzzzt._

"All right, I'm coming," she muttered irritably, hastily bundling the scrolls to the bottom drawer of the desk and using a charm to seal it. One of her three black cats, Jessop, was asleep on her knee and she shoved him onto the ground unceremoniously, before standing up a little stiffly and making her way over to the door.

_Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz-_

The final (needlessly Wagnerian) blast on the buzzer was cut short as Arabella picked up the entryphone.

"Hello?"

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line, and then she heard, very faintly, a voice muttering, "Well, go on then."

"What do I do next?" said another voice. Arabella recognised this voice and sighed. Of course. Anybody else would have used the apparition point in the roof.

"How should I know? It was your idea, wasn't it?"

A third voice, which sounded younger than the others, interrupted their deliberations. "You could always try talking to it."

"Do you think so? Oh, okay." The voice suddenly became very loud, as if the second speaker had just put its head near the microphone and started shouting. "Er ... hello."

Arabella gave a grim little smile. "You don't need to shout, Arthur - speaking is perfectly adequate. You could try telling me who you've got with you."

"Oh, right," the voice answered at a more normal pitch. "Well, it's me, Arthur Weasley, and I've got Simon and Bilius with me. Could you hear that all right?"

"Perfectly clearly, dear." She was about to press the button that unlocked the front door when it occurred to her that it would be a good idea to explain first. "I'm going to let you in in a minute. You'll here a buzzing sound and that will tell you that the door's unlocked. You only have to _push _it to come in," she said emphatically. "I'm in Flat 3, which is on the top floor."

She pushed the entryphone button, and was relieved to hear, a few seconds later, three pairs of feet making their way up the stairs. As she listened to them climbing, she checked her Foeglass and Secrecy Sensor. Both were clear, but she still drew her wand, just in case.

As she listened, the three pairs of feet reached the top landing, and after a moment's whispered consultation, knocked on the door. There was a lens set in the door, and Arabella checked it before opening, automatically keeping her wand hand free and out of sight.

The sight that greeted her as she opened the door was one of slightly surreal comedy: a vision of three Muggle men, the tallest dressed in a pin-striped suit and orange kipper tie, the second, slightly younger and much shorter in mechanic's overalls (_clean_ mechanic's overalls, Arabella noted automatically), and the youngest in biker's leathers that were too big for him, with a motorbike helmet under one arm. All three had vivid red hair and excited faces. 

"Greetings," the tallest said, with a flamboyant bow. "I am Arthur Weasley, and these are my cousin Simon and my brother Bilius, all bringing you gifts from furthest Hogsmeade.

Arabella suppressed a smile and attempted to look disapproving. "Come in quick, before the neighbours see you," she said, and stood back to let them enter, closing the door after them.

"We were so careful about everything," Arthur said reproachfully. "Where did we go wrong?" 

Arabella smirked. Poor dear. He'd obviously tried so hard, and yet he clearly didn't have a clue.

"Oh, the details are fine - though you would be doing the world a favour if you burnt that tie. And Simon, dear - I'd get some paint or oil on those overalls if I were you. They'd look much more convincing." She glanced at the two men's crestfallen faces and added tactfully, "but apart from that it's fine. It's just the overall effect that's needs a little work." She gestured them towards the sofa and the three sat down. It was a two-seat sofa, and Bilius, in the middle, looked a little squashed. "You just don't get businessmen walking down the street with mechanics and bikers - and you don't usually get businessmen and mechanics in the same family. It's a class thing - you wouldn't understand."

"Try us. We're not stupid." That was the boy, Bilius. He was - what? - barely eighteen. Possibly even still at Hogwarts. 

"Well, it's like the Hogwarts houses, except with Muggles it's all about what family you come from, so it's much harder to alter, especially as intermarriage between classes tends to be quite rare." She gave them a sweet, deceptively innocent smile. "But you're not here to talk about Muggle culture, are you? Can I get you a drink?"

"We'd love to, Madam Figg, but we've got to get back to Dumbledore soon. He just sent us to deliver some information to you." Arabella did not ask why it had taken three people to deliver it: both Simon and Bilius scoffed at Arthur's fascination with all things Muggle, but neither of them lost a chance to get out into the Muggle world.

"Of course," she said. "I've been expecting it. I've got some papers for you to take back to him."

"Oh right." Arthur picked up the Muggle briefcase he'd been carrying and placed it on Arabella's writing desk, fiddling unsuccessfully with the catches. The case had a combination lock, and Arabella wondered doubtfully whether Arthur had really grasped the concept before he had locked it. After several minutes of inept fumbling he gave up and tapped the case with his wand. It sprang open immediately, and he picked up the three slim packages of papers lying inside. "Early Christmas present for you," he said. "I hope you like it."

"Oh, I will," Arabella said, her wrinkled face creasing into a smile.

"The first two were the papers you were expecting. Dumbledore's also sent some school records along, though what use they can be I don't know."

"Oh, you never know when information will come in handy," Arabella said, in a voice that was carefully noncommittal.

"Why do you need all this so suddenly, anyway?" Bilius piped up, fiddling with his motorcycle helmet with restless fingers. "Have you found something useful?"

Simon raised his eyes to the ceiling and Arthur gave his brother a forbidding look. "Bilius! You _never_ ask that sort of question."

Arabella merely gave the boy a sweet smile. "You don't need to let that worry you, dear," she said. "Leave it to your elders and betters."

Bilius went rather red and stared at the floor, muttering something that was probably an apology. "Don't worry, dear," Arabella said to him. "We were all young once." _Though not possibly quite so indiscreet,_ she added mentally, remembering how obsessively secretively an eighteen-year-old she had once been.

"Look, we'd better go, Madam Figg. We - Oh! Is that a tellyfizzing? Can I turn it on?" Arthur almost ran over to the box and crouched down by it, fiddling with the knobs. Back on the sofa, Bilius moved gratefully into the space his brother had vacated and Simon sighed loudly. 

Arabella gave a thin smile. "No, dear. I'm afraid it doesn't actually work. It's just window-dressing for the Muggles. I even pay for the licence, you know."

"Oh." Arthur sounded disappointed. "I couldn't see if I could fix it, could I?"

"Oh, spare us, Arthur! Remember we've got to get the baby of the family back to Hogwarts before anyone finds out he's playing truant."

"Oh, right. I suppose we'd better. Well, maybe another time." Arthur left the television reluctantly and collected his briefcase as his brother and cousin stood up, and then followed Arabella to the door. "I expect we'll see you soon, Madam Figg." 

"Oh, I expect so. Take care, won't you? _Don't_ forget those papers for Albus." She thrust them into his hand just as he was about to step through the doorway, and he retreated back into the flat to put them in the empty briefcase. "Goodbye Arthur. My regards to Molly and the family. Goodbye, you two. Don't do anything I wouldn't."

Arthur called his farewells, his brother and cousin echoing them, and Arabella gave them a crooked smile as she watched them troop down the stairs. 

Her smile vanished almost as soon as she'd shut the door of her flat again. She sat down at the writing desk again, and immediately the smallest of her cats, an elderly half-blind creature called Jill, jumped up onto her knee, looking inquiringly up at her out of one unclouded eye. She sighed, and began to stroke the soft fur absently.

She always found talking to the Weasleys depressing. Their straightforwardness and ebullience always left her feeling jaded - cynical and old - and their innocent manner always succeeded in putting her on the defensive. Always had; probably always would, for all she had the artistry not to let it show.

They never noticed, of course. Like all the Gryffindors of the world, they always seemed blithely unaware of the effect they had on others. They could not understand that their clear-eyed, uncompromising virtue, their instinctive righteousness and the rigid code of honour they held so proudly was a constant, belittling rebuke to those who could not or would not share it. And yet the unbendable Gryffindor chivalry was every bit as cold in its way as was the starkly Darwinian world-view of the Slytherin. In their purest forms, both were equally monstrous -- if neither was tempered by the Hufflepuff sense of community or the Ravenclaw respect for the individual. 

She sighed and reached for the three bundles of parchments she had been brought, gazing unseeing at their blank, paper-swathed faces. She made to open them and then changed her mind, and placed them in a drawer still sealed. Better to come to them fresh in the morning. She was feeling tired this evening - tired and perhaps a little melancholy. 

The papers wouldn't be urgent, or Albus would have told her. She had no doubt that most of the information in them would be innocuous enough, until it was interpreted aright. Seemingly irrelevant tidbits, viewed rightly, became isolated fragments of a huge and complex mosaic, which only someone who really understood how to connect the scraps of information could decipher correctly.

Information was her business, of course. Always had been, in a way, even back at Hogwarts, where she'd supplemented her meagre pocket money allowance with a little light blackmail. And then later, after leaving Hogwarts: within a year of her graduation she'd been recruited to the Intelligence Division of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, first as an agent in the field, later running her own networks.

She was retired now, ostensibly, but the old habits had never died out. When Albus had come to her, late in 1970, asking her to join his newly formed Irregulars as Intelligence Officer, she hadn't even pretended to hesitate. Within a fortnight she had resurrected a good handful of her old contacts and was starting to put out feelers for new blood - slow, careful enquiries and heavily-disguised bait, laid out with the subtlety of a master angler.

Which was why, of course, she had taken the network's utter lack of success as a personal insult. Ten years of tidbits and rumours was all her network had to show. Useful tidbits, possibly, but still little more than chickenfeed, isolated flotsam of knowledge adrift in an ocean of ignorance. Incredibly, the master-angler had failed to land her fish.

And then? And then, nearly two weeks ago, a young, apparently highly-placed Death Eater had appeared out of nowhere and it had been Albus - innocent, guileless Albus - and not herself, who had landed the fish, collected the information from him and recruited him as his own personal spy.

She gave a soft sigh. No point in dwelling on that, after all. Albus may have recruited the lad, but it was she, Arabella, who would be using the information, which meant she still had work to do. She unlocked the bottom drawer with her wand and removed the papers she had placed in them earlier, reconstructing the piles and categories of papers she had sorted them into earlier, and flicking through them in a vain attempt to locate the sheet of memoranda she had been preparing.

Then she did something that would doubtless have startled any Muggle observer, had there been one. She removed the hearing aid carefully from her right ear and laid it before her on the table. It was a perfectly ordinary Muggle hearing aid, as far as appearances went, a small, curiously shaped flesh-coloured plastic box, connected to the ear itself by unpleasant-looking transparent tubing. A clunky, unnecessary device, for Arabella's hearing had always been exceptional, and was in no way dulled by the passing years. No: she had other uses entirely for this diminutive box of tricks.

She touched it lightly with her wand and rested her elbows on her desk like a schoolgirl as soft sounds suddenly filled the room. Footsteps, rustling, and then two voices, in a replay of a conversation that she had first heard nearly two weeks before.

_"Now, Severus, what can I do for you?"_

_"I wish to give myself up."_

She listened for a few seconds in silence, and then touched the hearing aid again with her wand, so that the sound ceased. 

Albus had not been pleased when he found that she'd recorded the entire conversation without permission. She'd pointed out, quite acidly, that it hadn't exactly been possible to get permission under the circumstances, and offered to delete the recording immediately. As she'd expected, Albus had said no, quickly, and then asked for a transcript of the conversation.

That, of course, was the other problem with the Gryffindor mentality. It always needed somebody else to do the dirty work, somebody who was not handicapped by their crippling scruples. 

She sighed again and turned her attention back to the parchments before her, trying to find the rolls she had been looking at before the Weasleys had interrupted her. There had been something she'd been cross-checking: a raid the kid had been talking about which seemed to tie in with an old receipt that had found its way to her from Laila Zabini's potions shop, and which should have been somewhere in the pile just in front of her.

She was finding it harder, these days, not to lose her concentration, a fact that she found faintly worrying. It wasn't that her mind was going, and her memory was still exceptional. No - it was the _objectivity_ which seemed to be so hard to maintain.

Take the Snape kid, for example. Ten years ago, when she'd still been with the Ministry she would immediately have been able to classify him: genuine/fake, sound/unreliable, useful/obsolete/dangerous, important/negligible, and made an almost instant decision as to his usefulness and how it was to be exploited. The thing was, if not a game, then an intellectual exercise, not so different from chess, save that the pieces moved in wilder and less predictable ways. She had kept her emotions utterly detached from the work, no matter what her feelings towards the agent were.

As it was, when she'd seen him the week before, and understood what he had done and why he'd come to Dumbledore, she'd had to choke down a quite irrational irritation at him. She'd battled constantly with the desire to slap him, shake him, forcibly to jolt some sense into him. It had been an utterly nonsensical reaction, and whatever Albus had see in the boy had totally escaped her. She could not afford to allow her judgement to be clouded like that. 

The trouble was, she knew herself too well to believe her irritation with the boy was just disgust at his crimes, or even revulsion at meeting one of those whom she and Albus and the others had so vigorously worked against. No: those she could have faced with detachment - she'd seen as bad or worse by her twenty-fifth birthday. But what got under her skin in the way those other things could not was that tiny voice that whispered whenever she thought about him, _that could have been me._

"I'm losing my touch," she muttered, and began to flick through the sheafs of parchment in search of the small strip of parchment headed 'Zabini's'. "Must be getting old."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


PERPETRATOR'S NOTE:

To be continued...

  
  
  



	6. Nocturnes II

THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS 

by Morrighan

  
  


DISCLAIMER: JKR owns all names, persons, places and concepts which come from the Harryverse, & I am merely a lowly supplicant at her altar.

CENSOR: R. 

A/N: Welcome to the second half of our nocturnal interludes. On with the show...

  
  
  
  
  
  
PART 6: Nocturnes II  
  


4.

Tuesday December 9, 1980, 9.00 PM, Flybynight Broomstick Port, Toronto.

It had been an _extremely_ long journey.

Pete Gudgeon dismounted his broomstick gratefully (if a little stiffly), and looked around him, trying to take in his unfamiliar surroundings: the long, wide landing strips that stretched out before and behind him, the multicoloured luminous windsock floating beside them, the noisy and bustling city below. The Flybynight Broomstick port had been established on the top of an unplottable tower on one of the islands overlooking the harbour, (ironically not far from its Muggle equivalent) and the lights of the city spread out to the north of them in a web of interlocking lines like the grids and contours of a living map.

"Sir!" A Broomstick Port official, dressed in royal blue robes covered in reflective stripes, waved him hastily away from the landing strip, and when he glanced up he saw another broomstick already coming in to land. He moved hurriedly out of its path, feeling dazed and somewhat bewildered by the sheer size of the city below him, wondering how he was ever going to find his way about.

The official ushered him towards the edge of the runways, where a small crowd of people stood in knots and groups, and he joined them uncertainly, scanning the crowds for a familiar face amid the strangers, almost sagging with relief when a small, smartly-dressed man darted between a group of gossipping witches and a security troll and came towards him, his face split by a wide grin.

"Pete! How are you?" The man shook his hand vigourously. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

It had been fully three years since Roy Weston, feature-writer for Toronto's wizarding newspaper, _The Town Scryer_, had stayed at Gudgeon's Westmorland hill farm while researching an article on rural wizardry in Britain. For some reason Weston, a city boy to the core, had retained a long affection for the Gudgeon family and their rustic ways and eccentric outlook on life. Why else, for instance, with a perfectly adequate Portkey service available, would anyone choose to _fly_ from Appleby to Toronto?

It was an immeasurable relief to see a familiar face in this strange city and Gudgeon grinned widely. "Roy! How are you? Gladys and the kids send their love."

"I'm good. How was your trip?"

"Better than I expected, actually. I had the wind behind me for the first leg of the journey, so I've made good time. I expect I'll be a bit saddle-sore for a few days, though."

"Beats me how you guys can put yourselves through that sort of thing. Give me a nice safe Portkey any day, and no worries about cushioning charms or stray bristles. You need to find a bathroom before we go anywhere?"

Gudgeon laughed. "Oh no! Find me a cup of tea, and I'll be ready for anything."

* * *

The Flybynight's café was dimly-lit and dingy, a place where nobody would linger through choice. Gudgeon's tea was weak and lukewarm with far too much milk; Weston, very wisely, had ordered coffee instead, a drink which turned out to be merely bad, rather than appalling.

"Your first time in Toronto, isn't it?," he asked his guest. "So what do you think?"

Gudgeon smiled, his face still full of wonder. "I dunno - I've hardly had time to see any of it yet. I mean, it's all so _big_. Like London, but huge! Is it all like this? And where are the farms?" 

Weston assured him that most of Canada was very different indeed to the Golden Horseshoe. Gudgeon, poor man, could not have looked more out of place in Toronto if he had tried. Wizarding fashions in Toronto favoured long shimmering robes of midnight blue or dark green or red, and Gudgeon, in waistcoat and knee-breeches and a long tweed cloak, might have stepped off another planet. "So how is the farm doing? Is Tom watching it for you?"

Tom was Pete's elder brother, and kept the next-door farm with his wife Edith and younger son Davey. "He said he'd keep an eye out for me. But it's quiet this time of year, and now our Hetty's old enough to mind the farm I can leave most things to her and Gladys for a bit. But I don't like to leave the farm for long, you know. Don't suppose I'd be here now if Dicky hadn't moved here. You remember Dicky, don't you? Tom's eldest lad." 

"Of course I do! I've run into him several times since I've been here." He took his pipe out of his mouth and took a sip of the coffee. "He had a bit of trouble settling in at first, but he's really found his bearings now, especially after he switched positions to Keeper - you'd think he'd been doing it all his life. He's got quite a following now, especially among the witches." 

"Well, so long as he's happy." Gudgeon suppressed a sigh. "What happened to the Appleby Arrows really knocked him for six, y'know. We was all very worried about him."

Weston looked a trifle awkward at this. "Ah, well. I, uh, never discovered quite what did happen. Dicky's doesn't mention it, and nobody likes to ask."

"No? Well, there's no secret about it. Dicky joined the Appleby Arrows straight from school, as a reserve player. They're based not so far from us, so he could still come back and help his dad and me come lambing time. He made the main team about four years later, about the time that the Arrows started winning the league. But that's by-the-bye." He took another sip of the tea and grimaced. "People _drink_ this stuff here? S'pose they must do. Anyway, about a year ago, I don't know why but, ah, He Who Must Not Be Named started to take an interest in the team. Games started being sabotaged and one of the chasers was kidnapped, and a month later the Death Eaters stormed their headquarters just outside Appleby. Only two of the team survived: Tom's lad Dicky and a Chaser, Tarquin Boot."

Another sigh, another sip of the disgusting tea. "Boot's paralysed from the neck down now -- he'll never walk again, much less play Quidditch. How Dicky survived I'll never know, but he was in a pretty bad way. They'd tortured him -- a lot -- and then left him for dead." 

"A bad business," Weston said softly. Gudgeon was staring unseeing down at his teacup, and it was a few seconds before he continued.

"Well, he made a full recovery, did Dicky, but he was never quite the same after. Went very quiet -- kinda withdrawn. We was hoping the transfer to Canada might take him out of his shell a bit. Change of scene, y'know. He was always such a chatty lad before it all went rotten. He and his brother Davey - they could talk for England, the pair of them."

A sullen-looking waitress with spiky ginger hair approached their table. "We're closing now," she said, in a bored, singsong voice. 

Weston glanced towards Gudgeon. "Let's go," he said. "It's not so far to my place. There's an apparition point about twenty yards from my front door."

"Well ... could we bob round and see Dicky this evening, do you think? He's not expecting me 'til tomorrow, and I thought it would be a nice surprise for him."

Weston marvelled for a moment at Gudgeon's seemingly inexhaustible stamina. "Oh, it will be," he said. "He'll be delighted to see you, I'm sure."

* * *

"This is it. Savoy Yard, Sultan Street." 

Sultan Street, and its fellow, Sultana Street, formed the heart of the Wizarding quarter of Toronto, and Savoy Yard proved to be a very smart address indeed. It was an ornate apartment block fifteen storeys high, the stonework wrought in Baroque arches and Corinthian columns. A thick iron portcullis was set in the arched gateway, and when Weston and Gudgeon approached it, it glided up silently to admit them. Gudgeon hung back, daunted, but Weston walked straight in, nodding casually to the goblin who stood, sentry-like, just beyond it. 

"Roy Weston and Peter Gudgeon to see Dicky Gudgeon," he told it. "Is he in?"

"Certainly, sir. That'll be Number 12. Up one flight of stairs and third on the left."

They climbed the stone stairs and Weston led the way down the torch-lit corridor to an arched door at the end. A cast-iron number 12 was affixed to it, and it glowed blue when Weston pulled the bell rope which hung to the side of the door. The two men listened for a few seconds to the heavy footsteps on the other side of the door, and then it was opened.

The man who stood in the doorway was in his thirties, tall and muscular, though slightly less heavily built than Gudgeon. His hair and beard were dark brown; the eyes a bright sapphire blue.

Pete Gudgeon stepped forward eagerly and grabbed his arm. "Dicky!" he exclaimed affectionately, "How ye doing?" And then he stopped abruptly as his brain caught up with what his eyes were telling him. "Hang on! You're not -- "

"_Obliviate_."

The spell caught both men in its blast and they stood there slack-faced for a moment. But the first spell was followed by another. "_Confundio,_" the man said carefully. He thought for a moment, his wand poised, and then began to speak softly to his companions. "I _am_ Dicky Gudgeon. No doubt about my identity will occur to you at any point. If I do anything unusual or uncharacteristic you will not notice it or attribute any importance to it." 

He lowered his wand and sighed. "Let's try that again, shall we?" he asked softly.

* * *

At least they had gone now.

The man calling himself 'Dicky Gudgeon' sank gratefully into a plush leather armchair and breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

It hadn't been his choice -- would never have been his choice -- but that was irrelevant. He was not in the habit of disobeying the Dark Lord. It was an honour, he supposed, in its way, a sign that he was trusted, and the least he could do was fulfill his duties well. After all, another few days and he'd be finished here. Back in England, and out of disguise.

As usual after a close shave his mind flew instinctively back to how it had all begun. That unexpected summons in the small hours of the morning to a bare hillside somewhere in Westmorland where his master had awaited him. He'd answered the summons as quickly as possible, slightly nervous because of the lateness of the hour. Summonses in the small hours usually indicated severe punishment.

But instead all he had found was the Dark Lord and three of his servants on the mountain, and with them a fourth man -- a prisoner. The Appleby Arrows Beater Dicky Gudgeon, unconscious and badly wounded.

They'd had him take the mask and hood off, and he had complied, well aware that such an order usually preceded execution. No such act had been forthcoming. They had merely stood there, watching him closely.

"You see?" one of them had said. "Almost identical. Put ten years on him and darken that ridiculous straw-coloured hair, and he'd fool almost anybody."

"Not so fast," the Dark Lord had said, and then proceeded to fire a string of questions at him.

"Our prisoner here -- do you recognise him?"

He'd nodded. "Dicky Gudgeon. Beater for the Appleby Arrows."

"Do you know him?"

"By reputation. I've seen him play."

"You play yourself, I believe. As Reserve Keeper for the Wimborne Wasps, they tell me. Have you ever played against him?"

"No. Never."

"Ever met him socially?"

"No."

"What about the family? Know any of them?"

"No." A memory intruded. "Yes. Davey Gudgeon was at Hogwarts when I was. Graduated at the end of my first year. I didn't know him."

"Very well," the Dark Lord had told him, apparently satisfied, and then surveyed him in silence for a few seconds before continuing. "We have a job for you. A very _special_ undercover job. As from tonight, you will _become_ Gudgeon. You will take his place immediately, as the sole survivor of the massacre that cost your teammates' their lives."

He had opened his mouth to protest at this, but with an immense effort of will shut it again and said nothing. The Dark Lord stared at him, and there was unmistakable amusement in the burning red eyes.

"You need have no fears - you will run little risk of detection. Gudgeon is due to transfer to Toronto in just four weeks' time, and once you are overseas your safety is virtually assured. In the meantime ... we shall make sure that his family suspects nothing, of course." _How?_ he had wondered, and then suppressed the doubt with a twinge of guilt. "You are of course to tell nobody of this," the Dark Lord continued, "Not your friends or your family, not even your fellow Death Eaters. Arrangements will be made to explain your disappearance. This operation is to be conducted in complete secrecy - not even your mentor is to be told what has become of you." 

"What am I going to do?"

"That is no concern of yours. You will be told when it becomes necessary for you to know. In the meantime..." The reptilian eyes had bored into his, and then the Dark Lord said, quite casually, the very thing that he'd been fearing. "Of course ... we will have to give you some convincing injuries so that the substitution is not suspected."

And then, almost as if conferring a favour, he had raised his wand and proclaimed in a high, clear voice the single word, "_Crucio_"...

'Gudgeon' pulled himself back to the present, suppressing a shudder. They had been very, very thorough over _that_ part of the job, and he'd been in St Mungo's for nearly a month, almost until the anticipated date for Dicky Gudgeon's mid-season transfer to the Toronto Quidditch team, the North York Ninjas.

And that had been that. He had lived as Dicky Gudgeon ever since, spending his days as a professional Quidditch player, his free time in ... other work.

There had been no other contact with the Death Eaters here, of course, except for two: a pair of middle-aged men calling themselves Tom and Jerry (he was almost certain the names were false) who came to deliver instructions periodically and then left, barely saying a word to him. He'd done whatever was asked of him, and then returned to his quiet life, unpunctuated by summonses from the Dark Lord. The work was usually simple and mundane, done by stealth and in silence: planting evidence, and sometimes removing it, the occasional death, usually made to appear accidental. And of all those tasks, nothing - nothing at all - that revealed the hand of the Dark Lord behind it.

And now he was nearly finished here. One last job remained -- one assassination of a figure so high-profile and powerful that the Canadian defences against the darkness would be left in tatters. And then it would be back to England.

_At last._

What would become of him then he did not know. Resuming his real identity was out of the question: they'd faked his death in order to explain his disappearance. Apparently he'd been found drowned in Poole harbour (Gudgeon's body, he assumed), leaving behind a letter to his mother and stepfather. Suicide, it seemed, after the breakup of his relationship with the actress Dido Borgin, who'd recently left him for another man.

Still, real identity or no, he'd soon be back on English soil again. Just four more days and one last job ... and then it would all be over.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


5.   


Thursday December 11, 1980, 00.30 AM. 4 Shatter Lane, Kew.

Echo Rathbone watched the door of her flat click shut, and gazed unseeing at it for a moment as she listened to her lover's steps descending the stairs that led away from her.

The evening had not gone well. She'd been ill at ease and inattentive - noticeably so, for he had commented on it twice. The trouble was, the more she'd tried to hide her unease, to act normally, the more stilted and unnatural her behaviour had become. 

He hadn't asked if anything was wrong, for which she was immeasurably grateful. She supposed it would have been nice to know that he cared, but she could hardly have told him about her sister's letter, could she? Not that she would have aired her petty fears in front of him even if she could. Rathbones were not supposed to show weakness.

She wondered fleetingly what he would have said if she had told him, what his reaction would have been. "Oh, by the way, my sister's a Death Eater. She thinks I ought to join too. Do you think I should?" But that wasn't quite true. The letter had been an ultimatum, not a suggestion. 

She nearly laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion, but the sound died stillborn, as she realised that she had no idea how he'd react or what he would say. He would be shocked, surely -- anyone would be. Yes, surely he must be. But there was doubt in her mind even as she thought it. Would he care? Perhaps he'd just be indifferent, shrug his shoulders and dismiss it, or possibly angry, at the idea that she might give her allegiance to somebody else.

She was glad he'd gone. She was too tense to act normally this evening. It was all she could do to control the cold panic which sat like a toad in the pit of her stomach. Oh, she'd known all along that the ultimatum would come eventually, but that hadn't made the moment any easier. 

It wasn't that Echo didn't believe in the inferiority of Muggles. Of course she did -- who couldn't? It wasn't even as if she disapproved of the Dark Lord's methods, which she considered no business of hers. It was the certain conviction that she would fail -- as she always did -- and fail badly. It was the awareness that, once again, she would be placing her shortcomings under her sister's nose, and that, once again, her sister would judge her, and find her wanting.

She sighed and turned away from the door, padding with bare feet across the cold tiled floor, her toenails painted a translucent pale pink that matched exactly the silk dressing-gown she was wearing. She picked up the two wine glasses that stood on the mahogany coffee table, absently examining their paper-thin bowls. One was stained slightly with lipstick; the other was unmarked, but a poised drip of wine at the rim showed the place where her lover's mouth had touched it. She carried them into the kitchen and placed them in the sink, noting automatically that the flowers in the vase on the windowsill were getting old and would need replacing tomorrow. She could have prolonged their lives by magic, but to do so would have destroyed their scent.

"Why do I do this?" she asked them aloud. "It only makes me miserable." The words came out in a pitiable whine, and she grimaced, thinking of her sister. "But Cissy ..." she used to say, and her sister would snap back at her: "Stop that noise. What do you want people to think of you? And _don't_ call me Cissy."

She ran a shallow bowl of washing-up water and immersed the two glasses into it, wiping them absently with the dish cloth that hung over the taps. Then she rinsed them carefully, swilling the water around inside them, and stood them, upended, on the draining board. She emptied the sink and rinsed it, wiping down the working-surfaces and placing the empty wine bottle by the waste bin. It could all have been done in seconds if she had used magic, but she found the mundane chores soothing. 

The kitchen was spotless now, and there was nothing left to be done in there. She left the two glasses on the draining board and went out, drifting aimlessly into the bedroom, where she stared down at the rumpled covers of the double bed. 

She didn't want to be alone, not tonight, not here, lying in that big empty bed, dreading the coming day and the decision she still hadn't made. Suddenly she wished he'd stayed with her, wished she could have woken up beside him in the morning. But he never stayed the night, of course. He always left immediately without looking back, back to his house in the suburbs of Leicester, back to the wife whom he claimed didn't understand him, and the children he said bored him. In the early days of their affair, Echo used to dream constantly of waking in the morning to find him beside her. But what was the point of that? It had never happened, of course.

She bit her lip, a childish habit she'd never outgrown, and then stopped awkwardly, remembering that she'd spoil her lipstick. There was no point in going through all that again. He couldn't stay the night, she _knew_ that. It was selfish of her even to expect it. 

She pulled the covers back over the bed again in an unnecessary act of censorship, deliberately banishing from her mind everything it stood for. Turning her back on the bed she went into the en suite bathroom. Might as well get ready for bed. She didn't exactly have anything else to do.

In the bathroom she stopped before the mirror, examining the girl who faced her, wondering what on earth he saw in her.

The face that looked back at her was thin and pale, with light blue eyes and blonde hair, naturally straight, which she charmed daily into ringlets. It was made up subtly and with impeccable artistry, the makeup only slightly smudged. It was the family face: her mother had had it before her; her older sister had it also. But they were both beautiful, and she -- she was just Echo. 

It was, as her sister had always told her, _character_ that was lacking. Her sister's pallor always shone like the moon; hers was mere insipidity. Her sister always looked radiant; she merely looked faded, an insignificant creature with rounded shoulders and worried eyes.

Ever since she had been a child, she had been the odd one - a quiet, awkward creature, in the midst of a powerful, ambitious family. Her parents had eventually written her off, and then her sister, eight years older than herself, had taken it upon herself to mould Echo into what a Rathbone should be, but bullying, cajoling, threats -- all had failed. The more she'd been exhorted to be assertive -- to make something of her life -- the more she had wanted to hide from the world.

She'd always so craved her sister's respect, and at every obstacle, it seemed, she had failed. 

It had been her arrival at Hogwarts that had doomed her. That fateful day at the Sorting she hadn't even made it into Slytherin, their ancestors' house for generations. She'd been put instead into Ravenclaw, according to her sister the spiritual home of the weak and apathetic. That was when her parents had given up on her, and her sister had taken up the reins in their stead.

Her sister had already left Hogwarts and was preparing for her wedding when Echo had started there, but she had treated her new self-imposed mission like a vocation. Echo had been grateful for the help -- she still was, of course -- but it hurt to know what a disappointment she'd always been to her sister. She'd tried hard. She'd even made friends with some of the Slytherins in her year, but her friends were still the wrong ones. Frannie Zabini and Amber Pucey were not from the best families, her sister said. They did not have the right connections.

"Make something of yourself," her sister had told her, repeatedly. Make what, Echo had always wondered. Her sister had married well, was renowned as a society beauty; Echo spent her days as a junior filing clerk at the Arcane Records Office at Kew, her evenings waiting for her lover. And when she saw her sister she spent all her time vainly trying to pretend that she _was_ doing what she wanted, that she was in control and happy, and not merely the helpless victim of her own weak nature. 

She continued to frown at her reflection in the mirror discontentedly, until it sprang suddenly into life. "Smile, dear," it chirped at her. "You'll feel better for it." 

It was too late for that. Echo did not even attempt it, merely turned away and left the bathroom, wandering disconsolately back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed, her mind drifting inexorably back to the ultimatum, and the decision that, more than anything, she did not wish to make. 

_Yes. No. I will. I won't._

It all looked untenable. What choice was there? Join her relatives in the Death Eaters, and be ridiculed as an inefficient servant of the Dark Lord who only got in because of her influential family. Or refuse, and lose forever her chance to prove herself to them. 

She knew she ought to say yes, and to say it willingly. It was sheer cowardice that had made her put it off for so long, and it was probably cowardice that now made her want to back out completely now and give up the perpetual futile quest to win her sister's admiration, to give up the fight forever and just resign herself to her inadequacy. 

It was such an attractive idea, never again to have to look into her sister's eyes, never to be weighed in the balance and found wanting. Not to mention not having to do difficult and dangerous things for a creature reviled by most of the Wizarding world as the epitome of evil, and risk _his _wrath as well as her sister's.

Echo sighed, not liking at all where her thoughts were leading her. Refusing wasn't really an option, for all that it seemed so attractive. She'd never have the courage to do it anyway, not to her sister's face.

She sighed again, ruing her own cowardice, and turned to her bedside table, opening the secret draw concealed in its base. It was empty, save for a single narrow strip of parchment, coiled into a tight roll. She unrolled the parchment carefully and gazed down at it, looking at the writing without reading it. Her sister's handwriting was flowing and elegant, the graceful loops and curlicues strangely at odds with the terseness of the message her sister had sent her:

> _My dear Echo, _

> _I don't know what you think you are playing at, but I recommend strongly that you desist. I urgently need an answer from you and I do not appreciate this perpetual procrastination of yours. I should not need to tell you that this is important. _

> _I will meet you next Thursday at the Flying Cat Tea Room in Richmond. Be there at noon, and have your answer ready. _

> _Your loving sister, _

> _Narcissa_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


6. 

Friday December 12, 1980, 3.15 AM. An Cruachan, Scotland. 

Snape left his workshop and shut the door quickly behind him, mentally running through his habitual security routine as he locked and sealed the workshop door. 

It was a complex ritual, involving three keys and seven charm, the words of one of the charms varying according to the phase of the moon. He normally performed it rapidly, accurate from long practice, but tonight he was too tired to do it quickly, and plodded through, stage by stage, muttering the syllables of the charms as he twisted the three keys in the deceptively simple-looking lock. First a jagged brass key, then a flat one of dull grey pewter, and finally the largest key, a complex filigree thing wrought of pale yellow electrum - silver and gold united. The last key stuck repeatedly in the lock, and it was three long minutes before it would turn smoothly in the lock to seal the charm.

It was a cold, clear night. A fleshy segment of waxing moon hung just above the horizon and the stars shone clear and bright, undimmed by the lights of the remote Muggle towns. He walked slowly back to the door of the barn, the frosted grass crunching softly under his feet, the world around him silent and grave. He could feel the bite of the frosty air against his skin, seeming to tell him that, yes, he was still alive. Alive on sufferance, perhaps, and living on borrowed time, but alive nonetheless.

He reached the barn door and let himself in, igniting the three lamps. Then he sat down in the wicker armchair, pushing the greasy hair back from his face. He stared for a moment at the empty fireplace and then, in defiance of his normal habit, ignited a fire. He seemed to be feeling the cold more these days, and he made a mental note to check the barn's weatherproofing charms.

He'd spent the evening in his workshop, bottling and stoppering the new batch of Draught of Living Death that he'd just completed. In its traditional state it produced a crude, workable simulation of death, but he'd modified the formula somewhat to make the deathlike appearance it produced more authentic, and the resultant black liquid now stood in neat rows of vials in one of his most secure cupboards.

Oh yes! As if he'd be able to administer it without arousing suspicion! That was just imbecile naivete. But what other options did he have? There were no known charms to simulate the effects of the killing curse. That had been the first thing he'd checked, and not even the most up-to-date charms dictionary listed anything remotely suitable. As for transfiguration into a corpse, it was simply too slow, too fiddly and too cumbersome even to be attempted. And what was more, any more overt means of trying to help his victims would get him killed quicker than you could say 'Master, I-' 

No. There was no point in going through all that again. He knew he'd checked every possible avenue - checked it about five times more than was necessary, if the truth be told - and yet he was painfully aware that his arsenal of defences remained basic and inadequate. He would need great skill - and not a little luck - to accomplish anything. And yet all the skill and luck in the universe would be useless if he lacked the self-mastery to overcome ... other things.

He stared into the fireplace, where the restless red and gold flames were tracing complex patterns against the black grate behind, and shivered, in spite of the restless heat prickling against his hands and face. He had to get some sleep, he told himself, if he wanted to be alert for tomorrow's raid.

They'd not given him any details, which meant that the target was important. All he'd been able to tell Dumbledore (in an anonymous owl sent to an even more anonymous Owl Office Box) was that the victim was to be Ministry worker, probably living somewhere near London - which meant it was all down to him to do what he could. After all, not even Dumbledore could work miracles.

He was anticipating the raid with a mixture of eagerness and dread. The previous two weeks had been a strain, simultaneously the longest and the shortest of his life, and the forced inactivity had come as both blessing and curse. It had given him time to prepare, of course, and, more importantly, time to regain some measure of his previous self-possession, but each passing day had grated on him. Two weeks, and he still had not struck a single blow for Dumbledore. At least if he died after even a single raid, he would die facing the right direction, having at least started to pay his debts.

He didn't imagine he would have long to wait.

It was strange, really, how life could go on even knowing he was under a death sentence, how everything was just the same when nothing ought to have been the same again. 

The previous day, for example. It had been a perfectly ordinary day in its way, dull, and reassuring in its blandness. Most of the morning had been spent in a long and unnecessary meeting about increasing Skower's market share (a matter of seemingly fanatical obsession to Skowers' rather maniacal Sales Department), the afternoon spent running the preliminary QC checks on MacPherson's handwash project, which had turned out to be a surprisingly effective evil-smelling green jelly. He'd stayed late to complete the monthly stock-take, and then returned home to work in his own laboratory on his modified Living Death potion.

All the days had been like that, in fact: bearable, reassuring almost in their set routines, running in their set courses like so many trains along so many railway lines, their routes and their stops pre-ordained by time-hallowed tradition. In daylight those nightmarish twenty-four hours took on an ethereal, unreal quality like some half-forgotten fever-dream. Amid the mundane surroundings of Skowers he could almost believe nothing had ever changed.

And then would follow the nights, when the trains would leave their tracks behind and blunder headlong whither they would in the darkness - and he, who was supposedly their driver, would be powerless to dictate their direction. It was in the nights that the old demons would come back to him, the love of destruction and the desire to harm, and the memories that had been their fruit. They haunted him late into the night as he tried to sleep, torturing and tantalising him in equal parts, leaving him racked with both revulsion and a yearning that was almost physical in its intensity. And then, - almost at the point when the memories and the fantasies became intoxicating in their vividness - _then_ the guilt would start, crushing him boulder-like beneath its load till it choked the breath out of him leaving him with no answer to the voices of his accusers.

How could he _ever_ cancel out such deeds? How could anyone blot out a past both unforgivable and unforgettable? It was hopeless, pointless, utterly futile.

Snape put the thought out of his head. He needed to sleep, if he was to be alert tomorrow night, and dwelling on his misdeeds wouldn't help. He stood up slowly, his thin face rendered skull-like by the dancing shadows of the fire and the flickering of the lamps. He had to risk sleeping some time.

He went through the preparations mechanically and slowly, without interest or care, like a puppet whose clockwork had wound down. A bottle of sleeping potion stood on the windowsill above his bed and he briefly contemplated taking a dose, and then rejected the idea. He'd come to distrust sleeping potions recently. The temptation was too great.

He climbed into the bed and pulled the covers over him. The blankets of the bed were cold and damp, and he reminded himself again about the weatherproofing charms, running through them in his mind and pondering the ones most likely to be effective.

The longer he kept his mind occupied, the longer he could keep control of it. The moment he began to relax it would take charge of him and subject him to its filthy, degrading fantasies.

_It should never have been like this. Why did I ever-?_

But he knew the answer to that, not that it helped. The conflicting loyalties that had dogged his youth had all been severed forever by his father's death - and the betrayals that had followed it - and he had been cast adrift, an anchorless, rudderless ship, with neither star nor compass to guide it. When he had graduated from Hogwarts he had gone out into the world caring for nothing and nobody, with neither creed nor allegiance to support him.

Most of his former friends had not bothered to keep in touch (_but then nor did I_, some part of his mind reminded him), and even Evan Rosier, who had been perhaps closer to him than the others, only contacted him infrequently. His job at Skowers had been mind-numbing - dull and repetitious - and his new colleagues there disliked him, even those who had at first given him the benefit of the doubt. As for his family, he'd already severed all contact with them.

And then had come the day that Travers had first made contact with him. He'd had no particular reason to listen to him, but then again there'd been no reason not to. He could have decided either way.

But he hadn't. 

Hadn't Potter (damn him) always predicted he'd come to a bad end? _Well, you were perfectly right, Potter - and much good may it do you._

Potter, of course, would never even have contemplated talking to Travers - but then Travers would have recognised Potter for what he was at once, and steered well clear, warned off by the invisible badge of office that all the Gryffindors seemed to wear on their souls. _If there's one thing I envy you now, Potter,_ he thought wearily, _it's your virtue, your effortless, natural virtue - and yet you take it so much for granted you probably don't recognise the protection it gives you._

But he couldn't get himself to care what Potter might have thought. He could feel the beginnings of sleep settling around him, and mentally braced himself for the visions it would bring with it. Tonight, however, they did not come. Perhaps the weariness kept them at bay; perhaps the awareness of the following night's impossible task. But whatever the cause, only a single memory, vivid as the day he had lived it, came to disturb his rest.

* * *

It's a hot humid day in August, and Severus is eleven years old. In three weeks he will be leaving home for the first time, to attend Hogwarts. His mother has taken the three of them to Diagon Alley to buy school supplies. She's looking very thin and pale, with long black hair that curls in graceful arcs down her back, and she's wearing the dark green velvet robe that makes her look like a banshee. Even in summer she finds England cold.

Nero, who's fifteen, has gone off to find his friends the moment he arrives in the street, but mother keeps tight hold of Severus's and Agrippina's hands while she takes them round the shops, buying the things that Severus will need in his first year at Hogwarts. Severus doesn't want Agrippina there while he looks at schoolbooks and is fitted for his first school robes, but she tags along like an annoying shadow, and mother won't let her out of her sight.

It's towards the end of the day when they arrive at Ollivanders; for some reason mother has left buying Severus' first wand until last.

A bell above the door rings as mother leads them into the shop. It's a dull, doleful sound that echoes on and on, long after the door has shut behind them. An old man with creepy silvery eyes is sitting behind the counter, trimming what looks like the end of a dragon heartstring from a pale unpolished wand. He leaves the work aside and stands up as he sees them.

- Good afternoon, he says politely.

- Good afternoon, Mr Ollivander. It is good to see you again.

- Of course. Madam Snape, is it not? A birch wand, with a unicorn-hair core, as I recall. To replace one that was lost when you left Israel.

- As you say. This is my second son, Severus. He will be starting at Hogwarts in September.

- Ah, yes... I remember him from your last visit. But he used to have hair like yours, Madam. It is a shame to straighten it like that.

- His father prefers it like that. 

Mother's voice invites no further discussion on the subject.

Aggie has left her mother's side and is carefully exploring the piles of boxes. She seems unaffected by the heavy silence of the shop as she reads the labels, even takes one lid off and peeks inside, before going over to the counter to examine the wand that Mr Ollivander has just been making.

- Dad doesn't like Sevvie, she announces to the world in general. - Dad thinks Sevvie's a wimp.

Severus mutters something rude at her and she sticks her tongue out at him. Severus tries to kick her in the shins, but mother pulls the two of them apart, her mouth set in a thin line. Mr Ollivander ignores them and picks up a tape measure from the counter.

- Now, Severus, he says, - Which is your wand hand?

Severus looks at his hands, unsure. He uses both equally. He knows there's a special word for it, but he can't remember it.

- Either.

- His right. He writes with his right, Mother tells Mr Ollivander. 

Severus would rather be left-handed like mother. He only writes with his right hand because Father insists.

Mr Ollivander starts to measure his arms and legs, or rather the tape measure starts to measure him. It moves strangely, like a snake, and Severus watches it, fascinated, until Mr Ollivander commands it to stop and it drops to the floor, becoming a tape measure again.

Mr Ollivander hands him a wand -- birch and phoenix-feather, he says -- and bids him try it. Severus looks at it doubtfully. It looks and feels very ordinary, but he raises it obediently -- and it is snatched out of his hand again. 

- No, no. Try this one. Oak and dragon heart-string.

A second time he scarcely has time to raise it before it is pulled from his fingers again, and a third and fourth follow it in quick succession. More wands are pulled out for him to try, so many that Severus loses count of the types and combinations, and wands and boxes are scattered over Mr Ollivander's tidy workbench.

And then Mr Olivander pulls a box from near the bottom of a very old and dusty stack near the back of the room. It doesn't look as though it's been touched for decades.

- Now perhaps ... this one may work better...

Mr Ollivander seems to be talking half to himself and he sounds pleased, as though he's just solved a tricky problem. He draws the wand out and offers it to Severus. 

- Cedar and dragon heart-string. Give it a try. 

And this time the slender strip immediately comes to life under his fingers, with a thin stream of purple and green sparks. 

- Hmmm...

Mr Ollivander doesn't seem entirely satisfied.

- Perhaps your other hand- 

Severus transfers the wand to his left hand, glancing at his mother for approval, but her face is expressionless. The wand feels more comfortable there and he raises it again, bringing it down in a wide diagonal arc. A fountain of sparks, far brighter and more abundant than before, flow from the end as he tries it for the second time. 

- Beautiful, his mother says. - A lovely wand.

- Is that all? Aggie asks, rolling her eyes ridiculously.

Mr Ollivander takes the wand from his hand and examines it. Severus peers up at it too. The cedar wood is reddish in colour and slightly flexible, the heart-string at its core invisible.

- Ah yes ... a most distinctive wand. The cedar was an import I picked up from the Holy Land decades back. Very little of it was useable, but it produced some very fine wands, powerful in their way. This wand will be excellent for healing spells and hexes.

Severus looks at it, wondering how Mr Ollivander can tell, but Mr Ollivander is still speaking, in an absent, remote voice, as though he's talking to himself.

- Healing spells and hexes: two opposed branches of magic. It's a unique combination -- the two rarely mix. I wonder which you will choose, young Severus.

- Hexes, if he has any sense. Healing spells are for wimps, Agrippina interrupts, but Mr Ollivander is nose-to-nose with Severus again, and Severus is trying to stop himself backing away.

- Hexing and healing, healing and hexing. The choice isn't as easy as it seems - such choices seldom are. I hope you choose wisely, Severus Snape.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


PERPETRATOR'S NOTE:

I know, I know - it took a while.

These two episodes, I'm afraid, come to you without benefit of beta. Earthwalk has been net.absent for about two months, so I bring these to you untouched by human hand. (I don't count.)

Earthwalk, as everybody reading this ought to know, is by way of being one of the finest authors on ff.net, and the writer of _the_ definitive Snapefic, _I was right_. Both as a writer and as a beta she's had a massive influence on this fic, & for both of which I am extremely grateful. Like many others, I'm rather worried about her, as it's a long time for an unexpected net.absence, & I would very much like to know she's okay.

The only part of this that has been beta-ed at all is the Toronto sequence at the start of LRD6, which the magnificent Margot has kindly checked for Toronto-cred for me. All hail to her. I also owe thanks to Sphinx and CLS for intelligent conversations and moral support while I've been writing this. They're both great authors, and CLS in particular is drastically under-reviewed. 

As usual, the Nocturnes sequence has all manner of allusions chucked in, most of which seemed like a good idea at the time (Ellis Bell, anybody?). There's no prizes for spotting them, but a few points deserve particular mention.

Trident (Lucrezia's manticore) is not named after the missile, but is merely a reference to the fact that manticores are often depicted with three rows of teeth. 

The character of Echo sprang, fully-formed, into my head, as a result of listening to the great Nina Simone singing 'The Other Woman'. Since then she has refused to leave it and has insinuated herself right into the centre of this fic. This would be fine, except that she irritates the hell out of me. _Nobody_ that weak-willed should be allowed to hijack my plot so completely. Anyway, if she suddenly dies horribly two eps from now you'll know I've finally got sick of her and ditched her.

Left-handedness, and to some extent, ambidextrousness, are both traits mentioned frequently in the Bible with the tribe of Benjamin. Whether it still holds true I doubt very much. More to the point, it's an attempt to reconcile the fact that the books imply Snape is right-handed, but apparently one of the American illustrations portrays him as left-handed. (I know, I could just have ignored the illustration anyway, especially as I've never even seen it.) 

Right, before you all go and review (hint, hint), I have a bijou announcementette to make to y'all. Basically there is now a Yahoo Group for LRD and a number of other fics. It's run by Flourish (yes, _that_ Flourish), and it's called HP_Angel. The other fics are Flourish's An Angel Came to Babylon (the main fic, for which the list is named), Nemesis's The Best of Friends, and Morsus Crustum's The Solitaire Mystery. Should anyone feel an unaccountable urge to join it, (go on, I know you want to), there's the usual blank e-mail to [HP_Angel-subscribe@yahoogroups.com][1], or the site is at [http://groups.yahoo.com/groups/HP_Angel][2].

Chapter 7 is entitled 'Irresistible Force, Immovable Object', and we'll get to see two rather different Death Eater raids taking place. 

   [1]: mailto:HP_Angel-subscribe@yahoogroups.com
   [2]: http://groups.yahoo.com/groups/HP_Angel



	7. A House Divided

THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS  
  
by Morrighan  
  
DISCLAIMER: JKR owns all names, persons, places and concepts which come from the Harryverse. Everything else is nothing but the product of a deranged imagination.  
  
CENSOR: R.   
A/N: Welcome to the second half of our nocturnal interludes. On with the show...   
  
  
  
  
  
  
PART 7: A House divided  
  
_'A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.'_ The Bible, James ch.1 v.8  
  
  
  
The only startling thing about the house was its ordinariness.  
  
Had he seen it in daylight, it would have looked Mugglish in its dullness. It was a square, solid structure, built of pale brown stone - unmistakably Victorian in its architecture - and surrounded by a large garden, with ornate flower beds and wide gravel paths, the garden itself framed by six-foot tall beech hedges.  
  
It was not daylight, however; it was almost midnight, on one of those blustery, changeable nights where the heavens themselves seemed to be engaged in civil war. The wind was fierce and sharp, driving the clouds before it across the sky, so that the moon blazed and faded as the they were hustled past its face. It rushed through the beech hedge at his back, setting the papery brown leaves rusting and whispering behind him, and filling his peripheral vision with ghostly, unsettled shadows. The house ahead seemed spectral under the fluctuating blue-white light, somehow transient and unreal - a ghost house.  
  
All things considered, it was the worst possible weather for a raid.  
  
Snape edged silently along the line of the hedge, never taking his eyes off the house before him. He knew now that it was the home of Quercus Trimble, Deputy Head of the Department for International Magical Cooperation, that it was located on the outskirts of Windsor, far enough away from London for his warnings to be useless.   
  
Trimble would be dead by sunrise, unless Snape could find some way to intervene. So too would his wife Myra, and two teenage sons, Aidan and Conan - and who knew what Ministry secrets would have been compromised?  
  
"No problems?" Electra's voice breathed behind him.  
  
Snape shook his head slightly, and cast another detection spell in the direction of the house ahead of him. "Fine so far," he said in a low voice, watching a thin web of red sparks appear around the house's walls and roof.   
  
_Fine so far. Fine. Just fine_   
  
He stared at the red web blankly, trying to realise its significance. Nothing felt real. Even the warmth of the wand under his fingers felt illusory.  
  
"Careful, isn't he?" Electra commented, offhand. "Three layers."  
  
A short way ahead of them, Travers closed in on the house, holding what appeared to be a long brown box under one arm. A length of flexible tubing was coiled around one of his shoulders, and Snape could just make out the tube's end, a short length of metal pipe, in Travers' right hand, and he identified the gadget as a Sortiphage. It was a new invention, based loosely on a Muggle artifact used for cleaning, which ate wards and other protective charms, storing them safely in the long brown box wedged under Travers' arm.  
  
Travers edged closer, the metal nozzle extended, and, when he was little more than a foot away, the line of red sparks began to buckle outwards, to stretch and strive towards the empty nozzle as though longing to touch it - and then, with the faintest of _ping_s, the web gave way, and flowed smoothly down the nozzle into the innards of the box.  
  
"Been thorough, hasn't he?" Electra murmured, indicating the still-silent house. _Yes ... but not thorough enough_, Snape thought, and the thought sparked a pang of irritation. Grimacing slightly beneath the mask, he nodded slightly, casting another detection charm towards it. This time no more traceries of sparks answered, just the house before them, silent and still.   
  
They waited, unmoving, the three of them, watching the building before them intently. No more traceries of sparks appeared; no sound or motion came from the darkness within. Travers stood poised by the doorway, the ridiculous gadget wedged under his left arm. Finally, in unison, Electra and Snape approached the house.  
  
Travers nodded at them. "Antapparition Ward, that last one," he muttered. "Just as well it was weak anyway." He set the machine down gently on the grass, and shrank it until it could sit, mouse-sized, in the palm of his hand. Then he drew out a glasses-case from his pocket and placed the equipment carefully inside before pocketing it. "You folks ready?"  
  
_No ..._  
  
He forced himself to nod, the action jerky and unnatural, and Electra muttered "Right."  
  
"On my count, then. One ... Two ... Three..."  
  
* * *  
  
"W-what are you doing in my home?"  
  
The man was square and solid, like the house, with a double chin and slightly bulging cheeks. He looked what he was - a prosperous, successful man, not wealthy, but comfortable. Definitely comfortable. Snape felt contempt well up in him like bile, the near-instinctive desire to see this pathetic specimen grovel at his feet. Then a wave of nausea followed it, and he shut his eyes briefly against it. The situation felt all too real now, and he found himself half-wishing for the anaesthetising vagueness he had felt before.  
  
"Silence!" Electra said sharply. "Where are your family?"  
  
"A-away." The man's eyes darted from one black-masked face to the next, taking in the three of them in turn. He was standing in the middle of the landing, wearing only a pair of ill-fitting blue and white striped pyjama bottoms, his flabby chest scattered with sparse grey-brown hairs. "Myra's taken the kids to visit her mother," he volunteered uselessly.  
  
Travers headed off without a word to search the house, and Snape shifted his position slightly to cover the space he had left. There would be nobody there, (he knew it, just as surely as Electra and Travers did) but they checked anyway. They always checked.   
  
"Really?" Electra said. It was not really a question.  
  
The man took a step backwards, away from them, stumbling over his own feet in his haste. He lost his balance and fell backwards a few inches, his back striking the wall of the landing with its busy William Morris wallpaper.  
  
The jolt seemed to shake him into speech.  
  
"Don't hurt me! P-please don't hurt me. I've done nothing-"  
  
"Shut up." It was a moment before Snape realised that the words were his - two tense, short syllables, in a voice he scarcely recognised as his own - harsh and vicious, filled with loathing, which grated on his ears like a scream.  
  
They were still there, all the old feelings. It was too easy to despise the flinching coward before him, to want to see him squirm and plead. It was as if he had learnt nothing. _Of course_, he reminded himself bitterly, _if you teach yourself to regard pity as a weakness, what else can you expect?_  
  
"I think you know what we're here for, Mr Trimble," Electra said coolly, as Travers appeared back in the doorway, shrugging his shoulders to indicate the absence of other prey.  
  
Snape saw the awareness flickering in the man's eyes even as he opened his mouth to deny it. He laughed softly, and the man gave him a terrified glance, almost shrinking before him.   
  
"But I _don't_ know what you're talking about! I'm just in the Foreign Office - I'm not important."  
  
"Is that so?" Travers asked, with a derisory laugh. "I s'pose you think we believe in the Tooth Fairy as well."  
  
"But I don't!" Trimble's voice rose an octave, and Snape could see the drops of sweat that beaded his forehead. His eyes flickered momentarily past Snape down the stairs.   
  
"The treaty, Mr Trimble," Electra said dispassionately, her voice clipped and formal. "The United Mages Co-ordinated Defence Treaty. You negotiated it. You helped draft it."  
  
"Or had you forgotten, perhaps?" Snape asked softly. "Maybe it slipped your mind for a moment."  
  
"Can't have that, can we now?" Travers's voice was bluff and hearty. "A little reminder's in order, I do believe." He timed it to perfection: a moment's pause to allow his victim the thrill of anticipation - and then the strike. "_Crucio_."  
  
There was a blinding explosion of red light as the curse hit its target. Trimble reeled back under the curse's strike, his face contorting as he screamed. Snape felt suddenly sick, and had to put out a hand to steady himself. It took a moment to realise that he, too, had flinched as the curse had struck its target. He glanced covertly at Electra and Travers but they were both staring down at Trimble's convulsing body, and appeared to have noticed nothing amiss. He felt a moment of glorious relief, quickly overwhelmed by humiliation. It was only the Cruciatus Curse, after all. He'd seen it done too many times to be moved by it. _And does that make it right?_ The internal voice sounded uncannily like Dumbledore's, the tone gentle and sad. _Does that mean Trimble deserves it?_  
  
Snape looked down at Trimble, trying to feel some pity for him, but it wouldn't come. He could _think_ his pity, certainly, but underlying it remained that savage joy, that longing to see this complacent, blind idiot hurt.   
  
He closed his eyes briefly and turned abruptly away, heading down the stairs to the hallway below. Whatever it was that had caught Trimble's attention -   
  
_Yes._  
  
The briefcase stood only yards away from the front door, beside an ebony umbrella stand. It was a small, square object made of exquisitely tanned pigskin. He scanned it momentarily for protective charms and then flipped it open, deliberately oblivious to the tableau of agony on the landing above.   
  
There was only one object inside: a thin folder of grey parchment, with the Ministry of Magic's seal affixed to the front. It contained three sheets of parchment, all closely-written in small, neat handwriting. Snape pulled it out, staring down at it expressionlessly. The Ministry had rules against this sort of thing, surely.  
  
Electra let the spell lapse as Snape climbed the stairs again, glancing momentarily at the slim file in his hand. Trimble stared up at him, his eyes darting from the file to Snape's masked face, to the two other masks above him. He ran his tongue quickly over his dry lips, and Snape had a sudden, clear glimpse of the wild panic in his eyes.  
  
It was then, that, with a sudden pang, Snape remembered that this was the man whose life he had undertaken to save. This man - no heroic fighter against the dark, but a desk-bound bureaucratic jobsworth - still had more right to life and freedom than he did. He shoved the thought aside. This was hardly the time to start waxing philosophical.  
  
"Careless, isn't it?" he said softly, "bringing things like this home with you." He held up the grey file casually, so that the light caught the security hologram on its cover. "Restricted Access, 196.2-alpha. Most unwise ... and I don't suppose you ever filled out a docket for it, either."  
  
"I did!" The word came out as an undignified squeal.  
  
Snape dropped the file so that it fell with a loud _slap_ on the parquet floor. "You know," he said lazily, "it's really rather tempting to leave you alive. It would be rather amusing to let you face the music. I understand Ida Pince has quite a knack of dealing with those who lose _confidential information_."  
  
Travers sniggered on cue. "She'll be having your tonker on toast, won't she now? _And_ your balls for earrings."  
  
"You're wasting time, gentlemen," Electra said briskly. "You can disembowel him later yourselves if you insist, but right now we have work to do."  
  
_What am I doing?_ Snape thought dully. It had been clumsy and inept, and it was a miracle that his words had aroused no suspicion.   
  
He turned his attention back to Quercus Trimble, and Travers, who was asking him something - about some Africa Liaison Office with a defence remit. Trimble was blustering and squirming and denying everything.  
  
He was supposed to save the life of this spineless-? To risk his own life for this-?  
  
He shook himself mentally, and watched Trimble threshing about on the floor, trying futilely to extinguish a stinging hex. "Alonzo Perkins - is he involved?" Travers was asking.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about!" An undignified squeal. Under the privacy of his mask, Snape's lip curled.  
  
Travers gave him a glance and he responded almost without conscious thought.  
  
"Don't you? Then perhaps a reminder is in order? Cr-"   
  
And the world stopped.   
  
He stood, wand poised, in helpless, frozen immobility, and it felt as if An Cruachan - and all the other mountains of the Highlands - had been transplanted into his throat. He could not have completed that word had his life depended on it. Time seemed to have slowed to a trickle, and he saw, with terrible clarity, the brief glance that Electra and Travers exchanged, Trimble's nervous, flickering glance towards him, Travers' raised wand and his unnaturally loud shout of "_Crucio_!"   
  
As he watched the man screaming and squirming to the floor Electra walked swiftly over to him and, holding his arm in a vicelike grip, led him over to a bedroom door and took him out, shutting it behind him.  
  
She did not waste time asking questions or telling him off, merely said to him in a low voice, "Go back to the London headquarters. Take this file and give it straight to the Dark Lord. We'll talk to you later." Then she turned her back on him and went to rejoin Travers.  
  
_We'll talk to you later_. That sounded ominous, to say the least. He realised he was still standing there looking stupid, and disapparated hurriedly, back to the Dark Lord's London base from which they had set out earlier that evening.  
  
It was deserted, and in darkness, when he arrived, a maze of Muggle-made underground tunnels with tiled walls, many of them almost circular in shape, which echoed with the deep and vibrant rumbles of the peculiar Muggle underground trains. He lit his wand, but the feeble light barely made an impact on the walls around him. He made his way to the large central cavern, nearly at ground level, where the walls had been draped with hangings of dark velvet. The light of his wand was reflected back to him by the silver throne at the room's far end, its sides and back wrought in the likeness of a snake's coils. This room, too, was dark and deserted.   
  
He checked the various chambers and rooms, lighting lamps as he went along, but they were all deserted, and then sat down on some steps of an old staircase to wait, feeling like a child again, waiting to be punished.   
  
He felt so foolish now, now that he was out of the intense atmosphere of Trimble's house, and no longer under pressure. Stupid to crack up like that. He'd never lost his head like that before, not even as a neophyte. If this ever got out ... If Lestrange ever heard ... well, he'd never be allowed to forget it.  
  
More to the point, he reminded himself forcibly, he'd been useless. Had he really thought he was able to make a difference? What had he achieved? Nothing. And yet here he was, obsessing over his own incompetence, when he should have been worrying about what he could possibly do to bring the Dark Lord down.  
  
"Stupid," he muttered again. "Just stupid."   
  
Not to mention the fact that he had just placed himself in a _very_ perilous situation. His errand may have been the mere delivery of a file, but to face the Dark Lord now would be dangerous in the extreme. To stand before the Master, with the knowledge of his failure - and his treachery - so new and vivid in his mind! The Dark Lord would see his guilt immediately, would read it in his face and his heart, would see it and know what it meant.  
  
_Then stop thinking about it, idiot.  
  
Brilliant idea! How, exactly?_  
  
He glanced about him once more, and his attention fell on the file in his hand. Electra had not sealed it before she had given it to him, and he opened it once more, flicking through the three letters, with their close-spaced tiny writing. _To be given to the Dark Lord urgently. _  
  
Snape read them through slowly, trying to unlock their significance, but the words meant nothing to him. The second letter merely contained graphs and tables, full of lists of dates and times, its only explanation a few lines of writing at the top:   
  
_Q,   
  
Here's that data you wanted,  
  
P_  
  
He contemplated altering them for a moment, and wondered whether it would make any difference, before dismissing the idea scornfully. As if the Dark Lord wouldn't spot tampering at thirty paces! Not that he knew what changes it would be safe to make anyway. He could quite easily cause more trouble than he prevented.  
  
He sighed and looked away from the letters. Useless - and what on earth was the point? Might as well slit his own throat now. It would make no difference in the long run.  
  
He looked up suddenly, hearing voices from the direction of the Throne Room. He closed the file hurriedly, stowing it under his arm as he stood up, and headed quickly towards the room. As he approached it (somewhat nervously) he saw the Dark Lord sweep inside, followed by a group of three Death Eaters he didn't know.  
  
He paused at the doorway, and one of the man (masked and hooded, as were they all) swept over to him.   
  
"What do you want?"   
  
A cold, superior voice, the diphthongs polished and precise. Snape filed it away for future reference. "I have something to deliver to the master," he said without deference.  
  
The man glanced down at the file under his arm. "It can hardly be important," he said. "You may wait until we have finished." He swept away and closed the door behind him.   
  
Snape walked away slowly, back to his seat on the staircase. Something rustled as he sat down again, and on investigating he found two beech leaves caught in his sleeve, doubtless a remnant of their vigil in the garden. Another was caught in the hem of his robe and he plucked it from the folds, laying the three beech leaves on top of the Ministry file with the three letters inside it.  
  
Leaves. Letters.   
  
Three of each. If he could not change or memorise them he could at least copy them.   
  
He picked up the leaves again, and then opened the file once more, taking out the first of the three letters, which he scrutinised closely. Then he touched his wand to the first of the leaves and concentrated all his energy on the parchment letter before him, watching as the brown oval-shaped leave with its diagonal veins mutated and twisted into the facsimile of the letter he held in his hand. He checked it carefully against the original and then shrunk it again to leaf-size, placing it in the sleeve pocket of his robe. Then he turned his attention to the second letter, and finally the third.  
  
He was only part-way through the third transfiguration when he heard the door of the Council Chamber open and somebody step outside. "You. Bring your message." It was the same man as before, and Snape realised that his voice sounded faintly familiar to him.  
  
Without conscious thought he had closed the file the instant he had heard the iron door open. He picked up the file and stood up, sliding the partially-transfigured leaf up his sleeve as he did so, so that it was secured under the strap of his watch, his body language expressing (he hoped) nothing more than eagerness to fulfil his task.  
  
The man took the letters from him in the doorway, asking him coldly if that was all, and he replied in the affirmative, grateful that he did not have to face the Dark Lord at that moment. The door was shut almost in his face, and he retreated to the steps to wait once more.  
  
It was quiet still. He retreated to an alcove too dark to permit spying eyes and withdrew the third copy from under the watch strap and inspected it, turning it over delicately in his thin fingers. It was still a beech leaf, its delicate oval shape partitioned by straight diagonal veins, though now both surfaces were covered with spidery italic script. Was it legible? He squinted at it for a few seconds, trying to make out the words on it, and then shook his head. That wasn't his problem. He placed the leaf with the two other letters. He'd send them as soon as he got out of here. If he got out.  
  
The fear that had tinted his life for the last fortnight bloomed and welled up again, bringing in its wake the beginnings of guilt. He was a traitor now - truly a traitor, actively working against the master to whom he had pledged his life and his soul. Almost without noticing, he had passed the point of no return.  
  
* * *  
  
"What the _hell_ did you think you were playing at?"  
  
It was almost three in the morning, and Electra and Travers had finally returned. They had come to find him straight away, penning him in in his quiet corner, staring at him with watchful, accusatory eyes.  
  
Electra, as always, had taken the lead, standing directly over him, and her voice sounded as though she had her teeth clenched. Travers stood at her elbow, and he had taken on that curious stillness that Snape knew was far more dangerous than his habitual bluff brutality. He had the distinct impression that Travers was listening intently to every word he was not saying.  
  
"Well?"  
  
Electra's voice grated and jangled across his senses, and he blinked slowly, but said nothing. She'd ranted and raved at him for several minutes over his incompetence and folly, and his ears were still ringing with the shrill echoes of her voice.  
  
"Well?"  
  
_I don't know._  
  
They continued to stare at him in silence, two narrowed pairs of eyes, glinting in the torchlight out of the matt-black masks, holding his gaze as he searched his mind desperately for some way out. Finally, Travers broke the silence, let out a long, heavy sigh. "Take your mask off, lad," he said solemnly.  
  
Snape complied wordlessly. His brain did not appear to be functioning at all.  
  
"I think you'd better tell us what happened."  
  
Snape stared up at him in helpless silence, vaguely aware that every second for which he was unable to reply, every answer he could not give, was another nail in his coffin.  
  
"Listen, Severus, if you're going to start flaking out on us-" Electra said, still sounding as though her teeth were clenched. Travers laid a hand on her arm and she fell silent.  
  
"Tell us what happened, lad. Did something go wrong?"  
  
Snape shook his head, in a vain attempt to clear it. Impossible to lie to Travers when he was like this.  
  
"I don't know," he said, finally finding his voice. His brain still seemed to be missing. "I just made a mistake." _'I just made a mistake.' Well, that'll really get you out of trouble._  
  
Electra drew in a hissing breath, as if she was about to speak, but Travers glanced across at her and she said nothing. For the first time, Snape noticed the silver-grey wall of sparks sealing off the corridor behind them. So his disgrace was not being made common knowledge - yet. The information gave him a morsel of confidence, and his pathetic brain started to think again, at about the speed of treacle. What was there? What legitimate reason could he possibly give for such a sudden abject failure?   
  
Something personal - nothing else would cover it; and it did not take much for him to deduce that it would have to be something _very_ personal to be plausible. Unlikely. They knew perfectly well that he was not in contact with his family; that he had no close friends or -  
  
The solution came almost immediately. _I should have known, he thought in disgust. It would have to boil down to that._ But even as the thought came to him, he realised that he'd accepted the proffered path. There'd been enough talk about it, after all - him and his mythical red-haired lover, the woman he'd suddenly fallen head over ears for.  
  
He forced himself to speak again, the effort hardening his voice. "It was a lapse in concentration, and it was unforgivable. It will not happen again. I have had some ... personal business to deal with recently. I should not have allowed it to impinge on my work"   
  
"Personal business ... Explain yourself." There was an icy clarity in Electra's voice.  
  
He could almost see it in his mind: a tight-rope stretched out before him, dividing lies and half-truths, things to be uttered and things to be delicately implied. "I had rather not. It can have no possible relevance to the Dark Lord's affairs."   
  
"Can't it? You panicked, Severus. You _never_ do that. We need to know _why_."  
  
He opened his mouth to add another layer to his deception, but found he could not speak, as if even his body rebelled at the course of action he had chosen. All very well, to play on these uproarious rumours about his red-headed lover (her identity, he thanked the stars, was still unknown) - but calculated reason did nothing to soothe the disquiet he felt every time he contemplated what he was doing, not to mention the awareness that it was not just himself he might be placing in danger.   
  
He took refuge in attack. "I hardly think you have the right to know my _private_ affairs. I have given you my word that it will not interfere again."  
  
It was Travers who took the bait. But then, Travers could find a double entendre in far more innocent statements... "Private affairs, you say? What's wrong with communal games?" He let out a great snort of laughter. "I should have guessed! Rolling in the hay with your little red-headed girl, I suppose. Never thought I'd see _you_ lose your head over a floozie. She must be quite something, to melt _your_ heart."  
  
Snape winced involuntarily, trying to forestall the degrading imaginings that Travers' words were conjuring up. Again, attack. The anger was so easy to generate ... It almost felt real.  
  
"You want to know what happened?" he asked savagely. "Great. I'll tell you. She's left me." The words came out harsh and forceful, and he did not have to feign the bitterness in his voice. "Gone back to her ex, if you really want to know. End of story."   
  
He could see Lily again before him, standing in the street, her eyes brimming with tears. But no hatred, no antagonism. It sometimes seemed that Lily simply didn't deal in that currency. He closed his eyes, and he was fourteen years old again, and Lily was, very gently and sensitively, ending their fleeting liaison. There had been something like pity in her face, and it had left him confused and susceptible, wishing he could feel angry instead.   
  
"And _that_ is why you lost your head? Is that the reason, Severus?" Electra asked briskly. There was a harsh, metallic edge to her voice, which jolted Snape unpleasantly back to reality. He hesitated, and then nodded, not daring to look up lest they read the truth in his face. Electra sighed impatiently. "You can deal with this one, John - I have to report back to the master. The last thing I need is one of my team moping around like a love-struck teenager." She shot Snape an irritated glance and said to him, "I'm taking you off active service for a month ... at least." She cut off his exclamation with an imperious gesture. "If you are going to cock up like that over this, I don't want you doing it anywhere critical."  
  
She walked out through the silver barrier, which closed again behind her with a faint _ping_, leaving Snape alone with Travers, who looked at him for an instant, and then lowered himself heavily down onto the bench beside him.  
  
"I suppose I should have expected this sooner or later. You always were too good to be true."  
  
_What's that supposed to mean?_ "What? Why?" A combination of fear and guilt made his voice unnecessarily sharp.  
  
"Well ... you was always so dependable, right from the start. You never let other stuff intrude, like a lot of the neophytes do." He gave a low chuckle. "Lucius was always quite envious of Electra. Reckoned she'd got her hands on the perfect recruit."  
  
The perfect recruit. Yes. That was exactly what he had been - accomplished, intelligent, single-minded, vicious, untrammelled by personal commitments or responsibilities. And obedient, particularly obedient. Lestrange always joked about him being the perfect Death Eater, when all along what he had been was the perfect tool.  
  
It had never occurred to him before, to wonder why Electra and Travers always treated him so well. Young Death Eaters who rose too quickly tended to be beaten down by their superiors, forcibly reminded of their lowly status. They had their work sabotaged or denigrated, credit taken for their achievements. Electra and Travers had never done that to him, because he'd never been a threat to them. He'd been their tool - the Perfect Death Eater.  
  
"I hate that phrase," he said softly, darkly.  
  
"Oh, you know what I mean, lad. You never fell into any of the usual traps - sometimes I wondered if you were human at all."  
  
"What traps?" Sometimes Travers seemed to talk another language.  
  
"Woman trouble - hormones - you know the stuff. Most of the lads went through that stage while they were still neophytes. You never did. Always too focussed to go for that kind of distraction. S'pose we thought you were immune."  
  
That, at least, was true. He'd always been far too driven for that. It'd just taken him far too long to find out he was driving in the wrong direction. "It has never interested me," he said, in what should have been a cold and forbidding voice, but merely sounded irritatingly prim.  
  
"No. Exactly." Travers sighed deeply. "Why do you think we encourage the neophytes to sleep around as much as possible?" He didn't wait for an answer, but carried on immediately. "It's a desensitisation process, like the one we use for the Unforgivables. You place too much importance on your emotions, sooner or later, they're really going to mess you up, like that poor idiot Rosier -"  
  
"Evan was okay," Snape said, more sharply than he'd intended.  
  
"Whatever ... But that's not the point." He sighed. "Let me give you some advice for once, lad. Man to man."   
  
_Man to man?_ Snape cringed inwardly.   
  
"Go out on the town, get some drinks inside you, and get yourself laid. Doesn't matter who, doesn't have to be anything serious, better if it's not in fact. Just do it - and the more often you do it, the better. It's for your own good."   
  
Snape did not deign to reply, unless the beautifully expressive curl of his lip could be called a reply. "And don't look at me like that. It didn't impress me when you were a neophyte, and it certainly doesn't impress me now. If you take these little affairs too seriously, it screws you up, and then you screw us up. And that we can't afford."  
  
"I don't get drunk." He sounded sulky.   
  
Travers sighed. "Think about it, you young idiot. You don't have to get drunk. What the hell do you think the Imperius Curse is for?"  
  
"For carrying out the Master's will! For furthering the Cause, not for -" The anger was too genuine. He could feel it starting to slip out of his control, and a small part of him was left wondering why that suggestion made him so livid. "So you are telling me," he began in the coldest, harshest voice he could muster, "that I am supposed to waste time that should be devoted to the Master's service chasing after any witch who happens to cross my path. A fine way of serving the Dark Lord! That's _truly_ going to bring glory to our cause! I'm surprised you don't dole out subsidised brothel outings." They probably do, he though, with a sudden flash of insight.  
  
Travers confirmed it with a nasty chuckle. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, lad. The Master's got deals with some _very_ classy establishments."   
  
_Such as the Blue Diamond, I suppose_ - Nero's 'Massage Parlour' at the so-called respectable end of Carne Alley. Snape's sneer deepened. Whatever Nero did not have - taste, discression and manners, for example - he did have some sense of what a certain kind of customer would consider 'classy'. "It must be a godsend," he said snidely, "to anyone _desperate_ enough to need it."  
  
"I don't think you can really afford to make comments like that, lad." Travers sounded angry. "With a face like yours, you can't afford to rule it out, lad."  
  
"_No._"  
  
Travers sighed again. "So you're not prepared to go out and have a good time, you're too proud to use the Imperius Curse - of all things - and you wouldn't be seen dead in a house of pleasure! There's no helping some people." He stood up, and passed Snape's mask back to him. "You'd better get yourself straightened out before they put you back into action. You've got talent, lad. If you're going to throw it away over a little thing like this, then we're going to have to consider replacing you." He sighed, doubtless at the contrariness of his colleague. "Now, shove that mask on quick, lad. By my reckoning, the Master will be summoning us any minute now.  
  
He was right. He'd barely finished speaking when Snape felt it: the Dark Mark burning on his arm. He reached for his mask and hood hurriedly, and Travers stood back and waited for him, waited until he, too was respectably covered, and had the wand drawn in his hand, and then the two of them disapparated together.  
  
* * *   
  
It was well after midnight, but the street was not yet deserted.   
  
It was one of the grimmer parts of Toronto, though to one accustomed to the darker streets of the British wizarding community it looked very ordinary indeed. The street lights shone a dirty yellow down on the cracked pavements, adding a grimy sheen to the tarmac, and deepening the shadows it could not illumine.  
  
The man calling himself Dicky Gudgeon surveyed the terraced houses and shuttered shops carefully as he made his way along. This could be a rough part of town, which was why Tom and Jerry had chosen it, and he doubted that he was up to another fight right now.  
  
The sky was empty and quiet, but he knew better than to feel safe. The B-Mounties were up there in the rooftops somewhere, still searching for him in the streets and alleys of the city - the most feared fighting force in the entire wizarding world, and the key to Canada's defences against the dark. Like drones from a disturbed hive, they had all swarmed out tonight, combing the dark skies of the city in their attempts to track him down.  
  
After all, he had just killed their queen.  
  
Madeleine Minamoto had been the head of the B-Mounties for seven years, and it had taken her only two to turn it from a perfectly ordinary Hit Wizarding squad to an organisation second to none, feared throughout the American continent. Inexplicably, for the last eleven months, it had been riven by a series of unconnected accidents and a number of high-profile scandals that had seen Minamoto's deputy and his assistant dismissed from office, and one well-respected district commander demoted back to the rank and file. What Minamoto knew or suspected about these incidents she had kept to herself - it would be a miracle if she had suspected nothing - but that did not matter. Public confidence had been shaken. The B-Mounties had once more become fallible mortals - and now they had lost their Head.  
  
He was safe now, probably. He was dressed as a Muggle, walking down a Muggle street, in a part of town where people were often active in the small hours.   
  
Probably.  
  
It still disturbed him, how rapidly they'd got on his trail. They had been after him within a minute - too late to save their queen, but quite fast enough to spot the killer. The mere fact that he was alive showed that he had been lucky - and he didn't like having to be lucky.  
  
Still, he'd done the job, whatever had happened since. He'd succeeded. _Getting out alive would help, though,_ squeaked a tiny inner voice, and he almost laughed at the thought, carefully not glancing up at the deceptively innocent skyline.   
  
He turned down a side street, past a tight-knit cluster of young men, who eyed him suspiciously as he passed. He knew he was limping badly, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't hide the fact. They watched him as he passed, and he could feel their eyes on his back until he was safely gone.  
  
Safely gone. Almost subconsciously, his eyes flickered up to the rooftops. Nothing, of course. But then, there wouldn't be, not even if there was a whole platoon up there. He dragged his gaze back to the street before him. Looking up was a sure-fire revelation of guilt, not to mention potentially hazardous on the streets he was now walking.  
  
It only took a few more minutes to reach his destination. The house looked much like the others on the terrace, neither newer nor older, the windows maybe slightly dirtier than those around it; the paintwork perhaps a little more peeling.  
  
He knocked on the front door, but got no answer, even though he could hear a wireless inside, so he drew his wand from the sleeve of his jacket, and held it to the door, muttering the charm just as he turned the handle. The door opened easily, and he went inside, shutting it behind him.   
  
The house was much the same inside as out, barely furnished, peeling and faded, the hallway before him lit by a single forty-watt bulb. The wireless was louder inside, though the words were blurred and indistinct. He followed the sound to the rear of the house, to a room that Tom and Jerry used as a sitting room, and opened the door.  
  
"...is armed and highly dangerous and should not, we repeat, should _not_ be approached under any circumstances. Any sightings of Gudgeon should be reported to your local Broomstick Mounties patrol via owl or Floo, or to the Central Headquarters by ..."   
  
The wireless greeted him effusively to the sparsely furnished living room. It was a small room, dominated by a large table in one corner, with three orange plastic chairs arranged around it. The table was empty, save for the wireless, belting out its emergency new bulletins, and a neat stack of papers on the corner nearest the door.   
  
The two occupants of the room looked round sharply when the door clicked open. Tom had been sitting at the table, and when he saw Gudgeon, he reached over to turn the wireless off. Jerry was over by the window, looking out into the back yard, and he, too, wheeled round to see who the intruder was.  
  
"No problems, I hope." Jerry asked. Gudgeon shook his head, and said nothing.   
  
Tom left the wireless and walked over to shut the sitting room door behind Gudgeon, who heard the muttered "_Obsigno_" as Tom locked the door behind him.  
  
"Glad you could make it," he said, not at all as if he meant it. "Nice work, Rosier."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
PERPETRATOR'S NOTE:  
  
Thanks to Winkyteatowel and Sphinx, who read this through at various points in its creation and found some of the most embarrassing howlers I've ever perpetrated. You've pretty much saved my bacon. Also obeisances and oblations to Earthwalk, the one and only Queen of Snapefic - one of the first and still _the_ best. Incidentally, to those who were concerned about Earthwalk, I've since heard that she's around now but not really online yet.  
  
Kudos to MMM, the only person to work out 'Gudgeon''s identity. The clues *were* actually there, believe it or not.  
  
Obscure references and the like: a lot less than usual - must be slipping up. The Sortiphage was inspired by a thing called the Noo-Noo from a UK toddler's television program called the Tellytubbies (sp?). But, yes, it is just an altered vacuum cleaner. "Obsigno" is Latin, for 'lock', of course.  
  
Voldemort's London base is set in one of London's many disused Tube stations, probably the old British Museum tube station, which closed in 1933. If my suspicions are correct, the British Museum is just a few blocks north of Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. I know I could just as easily have used part of the Victorian sewers which run under London (I think the word 'unmappable' was coined just for them) but never mind.  
  
Episode 8 ... Ah, Episode 8... Well, in fact the first draft is all but finished, which is actually quite unusual. However, I know how much sweat goes into rewriting these things, so I'm not promising an ETA. If the 80/20 theory is accurate, the remaining 20% left to be done should take me roughly until the release of OoP. Anyways, when it comes, you'll get to see Rosier in a spot of bother, Echo getting stressed, Snape getting annoyed (so what else is new?) and Moody worrying about Dumbledore's sanity (and quite right too). 

I am on Support services, incidentally, so Author Alerts should work for this.  
  
  



	8. The Art of War

THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS  
by Morrighan  
  
DISCLAIMER: Everything from the Harry Potter books belongs to J K Rowlings. The rest is merely the product of a deranged imagination.  
  
CENSOR: R.   
  
A/N: This got cut short owing to capricious characters taking the plot the wrong way, so Moody et al. will have to wait until Ep. nine.  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 8: The Art of War  
  
  
_"Nice work, Rosier."_  
  
It was nearly a year since he'd last heard his own name, spoken out loud.   
  
The sound was so familiar, and yet so strange that for a moment he felt disoriented - caught between two identities, and for an instant at a loss to choose between them. He'd adapted so easily to his assumed name - and identity - that it felt like he'd half- forgotten his own, that his own self had been half-overlaid by Gudgeon's history, Gudgeon's family and personality.   
  
He'd come so far, so fast that he'd never had time to think about what he was giving up to become Gudgeon. His place in the Master's Circle, his family, his team-mates at the Wimborne Wasps ... he was even inclined to feel nostalgic about his old school friends, of all people.  
  
Suddenly, he wanted to go home...  
  
"_Accio._"   
  
He was only dimly aware of the softly muttered word. His first inkling of danger only came when his wand slid lightly from his fingers into Jerry's waiting hand.  
  
He looked up sharply, too late. "What?" he asked stupidly, as his reserve wand slid from the sleeve of his jacket, and Tom caught it neatly, left-handed, his own wand already drawn in his other hand. Rosier's eyes flicked between the two colleagues with a sudden pang of fear. Both of them had their wands drawn - drawn and aimed at his heart.  
  
"Sorry about this, and all that." Jerry said, in his unpleasant reedy voice. "But the Master asked us to tidy up any loose ends once you'd finished. You're one of them."  
  
"Me? Why?" The shock was perfectly genuine, but a part of his brain was already calculating rapidly, whispering in his ear, _keep them talking._ He made a quick mental inventory of his weapons. His wands were gone. He'd used two of his knives trying to escape the B-Mounties, and the third had snapped in the ensuing struggle. The hilt, with an inch of blade, was in its sheath. _Leave it there._ They'd strike for sure if his hands went anywhere near his pockets. "But you said you'd be getting me home as soon as the job was done. You promised." Without conscious instruction, his voice rose plaintively.  
  
Jerry gave a snide smile. "Did we say that, Tom?"  
  
"We might well have done, Jerry. In fact, I do believe we did."  
  
"We did? We must have been lying."  
  
_Overconfident. That's good_, the voice told him. _And they're standing far too close together._   
  
It was his stepfather, Antoine Rosier, he had to thank for that. Antoine had begun to forge him into a fighter the moment he'd been old enough to walk unaided, and Evan had been training every day by the time he was three. When his limbs became too tired to perform the techniques accurately, Antoine would sit him down and talk him through the theory and strategy of combat, whether it was Magical, Muggle or psychological, until he was rested enough to continue.   
  
The training had come to an abrupt halt when the young Evan had been ten years old. He had been hospitalised for three months after the cumulative effects of eight years of over-training finally took their toll. But it had been too late by then: the teachings had had their effect. The moment he had been well enough to be allowed on his feet he had headed straight to the hospital's gymnasium, and resumed conscientiously the training routines Antoine had taken such care to instill into him.  
  
Antoine had done his work well; but right now his stepson needed a miracle.  
  
He was about ten foot away from them, he estimated. A good distance for them; a very poor one for an unarmed, injured man. Bad situation. He needed more time.  
  
"But why?" His voice shocked, and just a little aggrieved; his eyes watching them for just a single moment of inattention. "I succeeded. I got her."  
  
"You haven't been listening to that wireless, have you, kiddo? They've got your number. The B-Mounties are after you."  
  
"And everybody knows," Tom murmured, "that the Mounties _always_ get their man."  
  
"And it's our job to make sure they don't. The Master ... isn't to be implicated, not in this one." Jerry shifted lightly on the balls of his feet, weighing the wand in his hand. Rosier tensed.   
  
"But I'd never - " _More time. Keep them talking._ He scanned the room again, almost without conscious thought, weighing, evaluating it. The door was locked. The window might not be. Probably unbreakable. He really didn't fancy trying to kick his way through the door. "You know I'm never careless." The chairs would be a hazard, of course. Too flimsy for weapons, too close to be ignored. Particularly the one by the window.  
  
"He said no loose ends, Rosier. That means you." He evaluated the wireless and then abandoned the idea. Too far away, too heavy to throw. The same went for the ashtray. The papers on the table he ignored.  
  
"And orders are orders, aren't they Jerry?" A Muggle pen had rolled off the table and lay tantalisingly by the table leg. Useful ... if he could get his hands on it. "And we always obey the master, don't we now?"  
  
"So..." Jerry raised his wand, just as Rosier feinted to the left. The shot went wild, and before either could cast again, he had retaliated.  
  
It was a short, clumsy fight, and Antoine Rosier, had he seen it, would have been incandescent with disapproval.   
  
Evan had chosen a low-level attack - half-dive, half-roll, which took him well below the firing line. It was effective, in its way - his shoulder caught Tom squarely in the groin, as his outstretched right arm pulled Jerry down with them - but he landed badly, and the strain it put on his injured leg lost him a vital half-second before he reoriented himself. Tom had gone down hard, his head cracking heavily against the corner of the table, but in the lost second Jerry had begun to roll sideways, and succeeded in freeing his wand hand. Rosier threw himself clumsily across Jerry, ignoring loud complaints from knee and ankle, and seized the end of the wand.   
  
It must have formed a hilarious tableau: two grown men engaged in a tug of war over a small strip of wood. Rosier could almost feel his stepfather watching him in silent disgust, muttering some quiet imprecation about 'indiscipline'.  
  
The imagined rebuke had its intended effect. He wrenched away the wand so forcefully that it snapped three inches from the tip. He thrust it quickly out of reach, and as he did so, his hand connected with the biro lying by the table leg, and without conscious instruction from his brain, closed around it.  
  
Jerry was rolling on the floor, trying to unbalance him, but he hadn't the strength: Rosier was too heavy. He hauled his legs across until he was kneeling on Jerry's chest, and placed the point of the biro firmly against Jerry's Adam's apple.  
  
There was a sudden, tense stillness, and for the first time, Rosier saw Jerry's eyes meet his.  
  
"If the Dark Lord wanted me dead," he said softly, "he wouldn't have sent a pair of _amateurs_ to do the job."  
  
Jerry spluttered, and tried to push the Biro away with his free hand, but Rosier knocked his hand away, pinning it under his left knee. Jerry struggled again, futilely: Rosier outweighed him by over thirty kilos.  
  
The pressure from the biro increased.  
  
"You know I don't do Cruciatus or shit like that," Rosier said softly, the tension in his voice carefully controlled. "But don't start thinking I'm soft." A slow breath sucked in through his lower teeth. The room was utterly still. "I'm not soft. I know what I'm doing." More pressure. "Did the Master tell you to kill me?"  
  
Jerry said nothing. Rosier's eyes flicked over to Tom. The man was still unconscious.  
  
"Tell me."   
  
Still no answer.  
  
"Listen to me. There's a small bone in the throat." A jab with the biro; Jerry choked a little. "Dunno what it's called. That's not important. Someone once told me if you break it you die. No fixes. Takes about an hour to choke you to death." Another jab. "Dunno if it's true or not. Good time to find out." He let the pressure up slightly so that Jerry could speak.   
  
"He just said ... to deal with anything that might lead back to us. He said nothing should incriminate the cause."  
  
"That's good. Then I'm going back to Britain."  
  
Jerry sneered up at him. "Hardly. You're dead, and Gudgeon's a marked man. You're a liability now, Rosier. You think he'll want you back?"  
  
"That's for him to say. Not you."  
  
Jerry started to squirm under him again, desperately trying to throw Rosier off- balance, trying to free his pinioned arms. Rosier lifted the point of the biro from the throat and let it rest very lightly on Jerry's left eyeball. Jerry stilled instantly.  
  
"You wouldn't harm one of your master's chosen, would you?" There was a slightly panicky note in his voice, and Rosier knew he had won.  
  
"Not fatally." He threw the biro away in one quick motion, swinging his fist back across in a hammer-fist strike. It struck Jerry on the temple.  
  
It wasn't a heavy blow - the angle was wrong for that, even with the twist on impact to maximise the force - but it gave Rosier enough time to pull his spare wand from Tom's unresisting left hand.  
  
"_Somnus_," he muttered, and stood back from the two men, now peacefully asleep on the floor. He stooped over Tom for a moment to check that he'd not broken his skull, but there seemed to be no blood there. He didn't stop to investigate further. Tom would have to take his chances.  
  
He gathered up his other wand, unlocked the door and went out, locking it again behind him. He had eight hours exactly before they would awake. Plenty of time to get away.   
  
  
* * *  
  
  
Snape slammed the door of the training hall behind him, almost hard enough to relieve his feelings, and sneered behind his mask at the other occupant of the training hall. The high vaulted ceiling of the hall rang with the echoes of the slamming door as he stalked in, his hands balled into fists.   
  
All right, so maybe he was being punished, and getting off very lightly at that, but he did _not_ have to like it. Secondment to the training unit he could cope with, demeaning though it was, but to assign him to a beginner - a complete beginner! _That_ was an insult. Especially as by all accounts the candidate was skating the bottom of the minimum requirements and had only got in _at all_ by her personal connections to some very high-ranking Death Eaters.  
  
Which meant he wouldn't even be able to relieve his feelings by making the recruit's life a misery anyway.  
  
She was waiting just inside the door, and took an involuntary step backwards when she saw him. He stopped and surveyed her with distaste.   
  
She was short and slight, and the 'plain black' robe she was supposed to be wearing was far too ornate to be inconspicuous anywhere. As custom demanded of neophytes, she was unmasked, and her face looked pale and terrified. She took another step backwards under the force of his gaze.   
  
That in itself was surprising. Female Death Eaters were a rare breed - he knew of only six in the entire organisation - but they were among the most dangerous of all the Dark Lord's servants. There was a hard intenseness about them that amounted almost to fanaticism. They drove themselves harder, pushed themselves further, excelled the male recruits in every field save physical strength. Not to mention that most of them had a talent for manipulation that equalled the Dark Lord himself. It was rumoured among the Death Eaters that the Ministry was now advising its Aurors to kill the women first, (a source of great pride to the female Death Eaters) - not that any of them were ever caught.  
  
Whereas this! - this one, on the other hand, was not even making an effort to hide her fear. She looked weak and terrified, and, quite frankly, a most unsuitable Death Eater.  
  
He'd have his work cut out just to bring her up to the standard at which most new recruits started.  
  
"Miss Rathbone, is it not?"  
  
She nodded, her eyes terrified. _Show some backbone, girl!_ Then at least he could justify giving her a hard time.  
  
"I have been assigned to you to conduct your preliminary training. This will last between one and two months ... depending on your aptitude." Nearer two months, if she was as incapable as she looked - and (he thought angrily,) if he couldn't get her off his hands sooner.   
  
She looked up at him uncertainly. "Er ... okay, Mr ... I'm sorry, I wasn't told your name." A silence. "I mean what do I call you?"  
  
So not completely stupid. That was something.  
  
"Choose a name."   
  
"Er ... what?"  
  
"You choose a name. For me." That was standard procedure. The name chosen by the recruit could give nothing away, not even so much as a habitual soubriquet.  
  
"Oh." Another wary gaze. "Then, er-" she watched him again, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Gamaliel. Will Gamaliel do?"  
  
Snape blinked involuntarily. "As well as any," he said, his tone carefully neutral.   
  
He surveyed her for the second time, with more attention. She seemed small and frail-looking, probably in her late teens or early twenties, though she was wearing so much makeup it was hard to tell. Her face was unmemorable, almost insignificant; her body language gave her the air of a shrinking violet. _Wimp._   
  
Still, it should be possible to do _something_ with her. After all, someone had managed to turn Wilko into a halfway passable Death Eater. _Better begin_, he thought moodily.  
  
"We'll start with defence techniques," he said softly. He saw her relax slightly. She probably remembered some of it from Hogwarts - and so she should. "That's right. Standard seventh-year syllabus. You should be word-perfect."  
  
She tensed again. _Good._ There was no point in life easy for the little fool.  
  
"How about we begin" he said in his softest, smoothest voice, "with you telling me what the five categories of defence against hostile spellwork?"  
  
"Er-" Echo's voice squeaked, and Snape could almost hear her fighting to get it back under her control. "Blocking, deflection, evasion..." she stumbled and came to a halt. Inside his mask, the sneer deepened. He said nothing.  
  
"Countering and ... redirecting?"  
  
"Correct." He saw her relax visibly, and his anger increased. The five basic principles of defence work - and she had to take time to work out an answer! "Now explain them to me."  
  
"Okay ... well ... um- Blocking is ... blocking, I mean-" she faltered, realising how bad that sounded. "It's when the spell gets obstructed or absorbed before it reaches its target. It includes ... " She was gabbling now, from a mixture of relief and fear. "It includes most of the shielding spells, using an object as a shield and letting a non- essential part of the body take the force of the hex."  
  
"Name some of the shielding spells."  
  
"Er ... diffusivo and vormaur."  
  
"Good enough. Continue."  
  
"Deflection ... deflection's what most people mean when they talk about blocking. It's using a wand motion to knock the spell off-course. It's the most common way of responding to hexes." She hesitated, her eyes flicking about the room as if searching for inspiration, or an exit. "You let it strike the tip of your wand and then angle it away. You can get armour that does it automatically. And there's some charms. Refractus's the most common."  
  
"And evasion?"  
  
"Getting out of the way." It sounded silly, and she nearly smiled at the words "It doesn't work if the hex is heat-seeking or targeted in some other way. It's a last resort."  
  
"Go on."  
  
There was a long pause, and on her face there was the look of one whose mind has just gone completely blank. Snape watched without satisfaction as a slow veil of terror settled over her features. "What was next?" she asked in a very small voice indeed.  
  
"Try counterattacking."  
  
"It's ... um ... hitting them first. Doing a hex that's faster. But you have to be really quick for that. I couldn't ever do it."  
  
"You will have to learn. Now tell me about redirecting."  
  
"It's like deflecting, only you send the spell straight back at your opponent."  
  
"Correct. In essence, you are using your opponent's spell against them. Name a deflecting spell."  
  
"Er ... Verso. That's the most common."  
  
"Can you do it?"  
  
"Sometimes."  
  
"That's _something_." The tone of voice implied quite clearly that it wasn't much. In fact, it was the only spark of promise the pathetic child had shown so far. There were very few magicians who could use the verso charm _at all_ without intensive training. "What class do the neutralising charms fall into?"  
  
"Er ... blocking?"  
  
"Correct. Why?"  
  
Echo gulped. "Because it absorbs the charm rather than deflecting it, I think."  
  
"Yes. Now, when would you use evasion?"  
  
"When you didn't have a wand?"  
  
"Are you asking me or telling me?" The cold sarcasm in his voice took even him by surprise. The girl shrank away from him as if he had struck her.  
  
"Er ... for spells you can't block or deflect." That sounded far too much like a lucky guess for his liking. He let her flush and bluster for a few minutes before she managed to work out the answer - unblockable curses and hexes which covered a wide target area - and all the time his contempt deepened. This child was nothing - privilege without ambition, and intelligence without application. What she thought she was playing at he had no idea.  
  
He carried on firing questions, passing from defence techniques on to hexes. Her knowledge was even more sketchy there, and he wondered once more what on earth the stupid girl thought she was playing at. Most young recruits came to the Death Eaters full of themselves, having gorged themselves on the forbidden knowledge and champing like horses at the bit to show what they could do. This one still seemed to be stuck on the basics. _That's what happens when you try to bring in unsuitable candidates,_ the Death Eater part of him muttered. The other part, for which as yet there was no name, was merely relieved that at least Rathbone was unlikely to be a danger to anyone but herself for quite a while yet.   
  
"I strongly recommend you reread your seventh year notes before we meet again tomorrow night," he said when he had ascertained how little she knew about hexes. "You will need to master it thoroughly before we can progress."  
  
"Oh. Yes - of course."  
  
"Now ... let's see if you can actually do any of these techniques. _Flagellus._"  
  
The deflection was a little late, not that he'd expected anything else, and the tail-end of the curse caught her, making her yelp. "Not fast enough. Again." He threw another curse, and she responded slightly faster, the movements wild and exaggerated. "Sloppy technique. It's a wand, not a Beater's bat. Try again."  
  
If there was one positive feature in the whole disgraceful situation, he thought moodily, it was that he was now in a situation where he was unlikely to have to do anything Dumbledore would disapprove of. He launched yet another curse at her, and watched her deflection with critical eyes. But then, he remembered with a jolt, he was hardly well-placed to do any good either. He was no use to anyone, out here on the sidelines. Whether anyone suspected him or not, he'd effectively been neutralised - and it had only been two weeks since -  
  
_Never mind that._ At least he was alive, and probably safe. Whining over his current assignment would accomplish nothing.  
  
He turned his attention back to the cowering Echo. "Pathetic. Sloppy technique, sketchy knowledge, even of the standard NEWTs syllabus. You're going to need to put in _considerably_ more work than that if you want to make it as a Death Eater.  
  
"Sorry," she said inadequately. "I'll work on it."  
  
_Sorry!_ he raged inwardly. _A would-be Death Eater who apologises!_ "You'd better. Now, have you duelled?"  
  
She shook her head. And _this_ was the neophyte they'd assigned him!  
  
_Typical! Just typical._ "Then we'll start slowly. Stick to defence moves for the time being. Try not to let any hexes hit you. I won't include the Unforgivables today."  
  
"Oh shi- ... I mean okay."  
  
He began without any of the preliminary bowing and posturing that others might have included, but by now she seemed to have learnt enough not to expect it.   
  
Duelling, in the Death Eaters, was understood to be strictly a beginners' tool - a useful, if limited model for how genuine combat worked. They may have had a duelling specialist among the training staff, but Federico Lumbaya had been brought up in the simple and brutal Freetown Rules of combat, rather than the archaic pretensions of the Heidelberg Rules favoured by the western world. The Freetown rules (which permitted any style of fighting and any weapon not made of metal) may have been less unrealistic than most, but it still took no account of battleground geography, multiple opponents, weather conditions or any of a thousand other variables which the genuine fighter would have to consider.  
  
And Rathbone probably had no idea just how lightly she was being let off.  
  
She did better than he had expected: it was fully thirty seconds before her reactions began to slow, and even then she kept out of serious trouble for another ten. He speeded up his attacks. If the stupid little goose wanted to be a Death Eater, that was just fine by him. Let her pay the price.  
  
He increased the pace again, and what technique she had abruptly fell apart. She was swiping wildly to deflect the hexes, sacrificing time and energy because of her over-exaggerated wand-work. The curses she was too slow to deflect were starting to find their targets, and the involuntary flinches as they struck cost her yet more time. She was retreating with every step, almost stumbling backwards now, and the misstep caused her to miss another two curses. Both struck her full-on, throwing her backwards. She stumbled again, and fell, and promptly burst into tears.  
  
Snape stopped casting hexes. "What?" he asked, his voice deliberately aggressive.  
  
Echo scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over the hem of her robe. "It's no good," she wailed. "'S never any good. I should have _known_ I'd be useless." Her voice rose uncontrollably, and she nearly began sobbing again. "And I never even _wanted_ to do it!"  
  
For a fraction of a second, Snape seemed to have frozen to the spot, and then he strode forward, seizing her roughly by the shoulders. "You .... what?" He lifted her up, shaking her violently. "Then _why_ in hell's name are you trying to join us?"   
  
There was a long, shocked silence.  
  
Snape let go of her quickly, suddenly terribly aware of where he was and what he was doing. He was in enough ill favour already - and assaulting Lucius Malfoy's sister-in-law was likely to get him into deep, deep trouble. Echo backed away from him slowly, staring up at him with her mouth open. Her face had gone milk-white, her blonde ringlets sticking sweatily to the heavily made-up face.  
  
"Please Gamaliel - please don't tell Narcissa I said that," she whimpered, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her robe. Snape watched her, motionless. Her eye-makeup had run in long, pale blue smears down the elegant black fabric.  
  
"You don't _wish_ to become a Death Eater," he said, his voice empty and emotionless. "Then why are you here?"  
  
"My sister," Echo whimpered. "She said she'd disown me if I didn't. Completely. She said I'd be no sister of hers."  
  
"And so you decided to join us."   
  
"I've got to."  
  
Snape stared at her, torn for an agonising eternity between horror and contempt. That anyone would throw their life, their _hope_ away, for so slight a reason! It was beyond folly; it was criminal insanity. Not that he had the right to comment, he reminded himself with sudden bitterness. He of all people should know better than that.  
  
"It takes more than that, to serve the master," he said softly. "Once you are pledged to the Dark Lord, you are his - soul and body and mind. He remakes you, he moulds you into the creature of his choosing, to do his will and his work, forever." His eyes seemed to focus on Echo's face once again, a rigid, horror-stricken mask. He'd never seen that expression on a living face before. "It's an extortionately high price, isn't it, just to avoid your sister's wrath."  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"No ... I don't suppose you do." He inhaled deeply, and then released the air, trying to force some of the tension in his back to dissipate. "You will need a much better reason than that, if you truly mean to become a Death Eater." He paused, and examined the girl with genuine interest for the first time. "We had better finish here. Be here tomorrow at the same time. I will say nothing to your sister."  
  
"Oh... okay. Thank you. Goodbye, then."  
  
She hesitated for an instant, and then disapparated, the ornate folds of the black robe swirling around her as she vanished.  
  
Snape watched her as she vanished, staring still after her long after she had disappeared. Then he turned his back deliberately, and stalked over to one of the dusty oak benches that lined the walls of the room, letting himself sink down onto it. The distinct beginnings of a headache was pounding dully at the inside of his cranium.  
  
It was five minutes before the hour. The next recruit, and his trainer, would be there in a few minutes. He stood up again, and reached for his winter cloak which hung beside the door. There weren't any training tools to be cleared up; it would be a while before Rathbone would be competent enough to use them. If she ever got that far.  
  
"You stupid, stupid bitch," he said, to the reverberating emptiness of the training hall, but only the echoes replied. The headache did not go away.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
"Rosier."  
  
The hall was deadly quiet. Rosier, prostrated before the feet of his master, did not dare move so much as a muscle. There was a note in the Master's voice that had sounded almost surprised, and it had smitten him with a sudden pang of doubt.   
  
"Master," he said into the silence, the soft deep voice sounding sleepy and dull after the Dark Lord's high-pitched tones.  
  
"I do not recall giving you permission to return, Rosier. Rise, and explain yourself."  
  
Rosier rose, but remained on his knees. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the tiny bubbles of terror percolating through the layers of his mind. "Master ... I-" he began, and then paused again, searching for words. "When I completed the work you had graciously assigned to me, I returned to meet your agents." A pause, trying to find the words. "They felt that I was of no more use to your Lordship and should die immediately, rather than risk being caught and compromising your security. I ... I could not believe that that would be your will."  
  
"So you presume to know my will. Interesting."  
  
Rosier bowed his head, as if in shame. "Sire, I regret my presumption ... but I hoped that my usefulness to your cause was not truly at an end."  
  
Rosier fell silent, and the Dark Lord scanned him closely.  
  
"And if I said it was?"  
  
"Then I would accept your word." He could feel a droplet of sweat making its distracting way down the small of his back. "Then I will accept my fate, as well as whatever penalty your lordship chooses to add for my disobedience."  
  
Another pause, seconds lingering into minutes. Rosier could feel the Dark Lord's stare prickling on his skin, evaluating him, weighing him up. He waited, and waited again, as he heard the Dark Lord rise from his throne and approach him, laying a burning hand on his servant's head. Rosier did not flinch, not even slightly.   
  
"If I did not know better, Rosier," the Dark Lord said, his voice a low purr. "I would say that you were too good to be true."  
  
"I am my Master's loyal servant." Another pause. The hand was removed. The burning eyes raked his face, and he met their gaze with neither pride nor fear.  
  
"Indeed, Rosier. Yes, indeed ... I do believe you are."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
PERPETRATOR'S NOTE:  
  
Hello? Is anyone still reading this fic?   
  
I'm afraid this is the traditional plea for reviews. I live off reviews. Please tell me what you think, even if it's just "I read it. 3/10."  
  
I doubt that anyone would agree with me on this, but I think Rosier's absolutely adorable. He's easily one of my favourite characters in this fic - along with McPherson and Arabella. Unfortunately this is pretty much a guarantee that I'm going to do something horrible to him in the very near future. (Oh yeah! he's going to die anyway - I love canon.)  
  
Misc notes: I'm afraid I got a bit carried away with the old martial arts theories. They evolved from a combination of Muggle martial arts theories real and spurious and my own (admittedly limited) fighting experiences. Echo's deflection technique or lack of it is a pretty fair assessment of most beginners attempting to block.   
  
Heidelberg rules was for the traditional Muggle duelling clubs that sprang up at the university there; I don't know why Freetown should have its own duelling rules, except that I came up with the idea shortly after reading Graham Greene's _Travels with My Aunt._  
  
Chapter nine rather depends on the good behavior of Arabella and Alastor. As usual, I make no promises.  



	9. Your old men shall dream dreams

THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS  
by Morrighan  
  
DISCLAIMER: Everything from the Harry Potter books belongs to J K Rowlings. The rest is merely the product of a deranged imagination.  
  
CENSOR: R.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 9: Your old men shall dream dreams...  
  
  
  
  
"So that's it, then," Alastor Moody said flatly, not for the first time. "There's no other possible answer. There's a Death Eater at the Ministry."  
  
He glared in turn at Albus Dumbledore and Arabella Figg, who both sat in high leather-upholstered armchairs opposite his desk, and then down again at the deal-topped surface of his desk. The three letters lay before him in a neat row, and behind them in a second row lay their copies, aligned in their neat ranks like a small parchment regiment. The third copy, deformed as it had previously been, looked almost like its original now, though it had taken Albus almost an hour of painstaking work to get it that way.  
  
"Well, really, Alastor! It's not as if we haven't known as much for ages."  
  
"We had no *proof*," Alastor growled. "Suspected, yes! Oh we may have suspected! - but we lacked proof. Now we *know.*" Alastor sucked in a deep breath and surveyed the web of anti-surveillance charms that arced across the ceiling and walls and underfoot across the deep-pile carpet. "There's no other possible explanation - assuming, of course, Albus, that your spy is telling us the truth."  
  
"I am sure of it," Albus said, rather too firmly, and Alastor grunted skeptically, hearing clear as words the doubts his colleague was so obviously suppressing.  
  
"Actually," Arabella said, with an air of maddening superiority. "It doesn't matter whether he's lying: the proof still stands. Ida remembers Trimble checking the file out very clearly, and she made a note in her log that without returning it. She was intending to have a brief word with him today."   
  
Alastor winced involuntarily, stricken by a sudden and very vivid memory of Ida's notion of a 'brief word'.  
  
"And the file was back on the shelf first thing this morning."   
  
"That's what I said." Alastor was clearly feeling difficult today.  
  
"And it hadn't been altered at all?"  
  
"Ida was sure of it," Arabella said confidently.  
  
"Quite sure?"  
  
"Certain. She was quite emphatic on the subject. You know dear Ida - if she had had the least suspicion that someone might have been tampering with her files, she wouldn't rest until she'd hunted down the person responsible. She is a most .... conscientious ... archivist."  
  
"Ouch," Alastor muttered.  
  
"Oh, of course," Albus said. He considered himself most fortunate to have hired Irma, whom he had found to be easily the least stringent of the siblings, rather than Ida, who had charge of the Ministry archives, or Ivy, who ruled the Arcane Records Office with a rod of iron. The Pince triplets were rightly legendary in the Wizarding world for their extreme devotion to duty almost as much as for their sheer sadistic creativity in dealing with wrongdoers.   
  
Moody bent over the six letters again. "What about the copies? Are they accurate?"   
  
Arabella took her glasses off and started to polish them, wiping the lenses in small clockwise circles, and then passed them across to him. "The first two are exact, to the least detail. You may check for yourself if you wish."   
  
Alastor refused the glasses with a wave of his hand. "There's no need, Arabella, no need. I am quite happy to take your word for it."  
  
Arabella polished the lenses again, anticlockwise this time, and donned the glasses once more. "And just when I thought you could no longer surprise me," she said absently.  
  
Alastor pretended not to hear her. "And the third letter - I suppose that's our stumbling-block."  
  
"You'll have to ask Albus about that, dear. I'm afraid I rather left that one to him."  
  
"Of course ... transfiguration always was your blind spot." There was a touch of malice in the words, but Arabella smiled blithely at him, seemingly oblivious to his tone.  
  
"And there speaks someone who once transfigured his own feet into cabbages."  
  
"Yes ... well ... That *was* some time back. Anyway, the third letter. What did you think, Albus?"  
  
"Accurate, as far as I can tell. My spy seems to have been interrupted midway through, so parts of it are indistinct, though I've done my best to reconstruct it." Albus sounded a little uncertain, and Alastor gave him a suspicious look.  
  
"Or," he said with heavy emphasis, "he could have left it deliberately vague to conceal some alteration or other to the original." He scratched his stubbly chin with a loud rasping sound. "You're a trusting man, Albus. This ... spy ... of yours wouldn't be the first to take advantage."  
  
Albus looked even more unhappy. It was Arabella who answered.   
  
"Not necessarily, dear. I did some little experiments when I got this ... and the appearance is quite consistent with a straightforward transfiguration spell being interrupted midway." She took off her glasses, and began to polish them again. "Not, of course," she said sweetly, "that that rules out foul play."  
  
"I supose that's as good as we'll get," Alastor growled. He picked up his wand again, and added yet another layer to the containment spells surrounding the three of them. "All right, spit it out, man. Who *is* this wonder-child of yours?" Albus was looking unhappy, he noted, and the blue eyes lacked their customary assurance. His suspicions deepened, and he cast a glance at Arabella, who so far had said nothing on the subject. She met his eye for the briefest instant, and gave him a very slight one-shouldered shrug.  
  
[Aha!] he though. [So you have your doubts too]. "Well?" he asked. "I'm all agog."  
  
Albus looked across at Arabella, who nodded, very slightly.  
  
"His name's Severus Snape. He graduated from Hogwarts in 1974."  
  
For a few seconds, Moody was actually struck dumb, but five seconds' grace did nothing to temper his eventual reaction.  
  
"*What?*"  
  
"That's right," Arabella said briskly. "Severus Snape, who *just happens* to be the second son of Tiberius Snape and grandson of the notorious Caligula Snape."   
  
"And you ... trusted ... him," Alastor said blankly. "Albus! You have got to be out of your mind! You are prepared to trust a *Snape*, of all people? Of all the cretinous, moronic, idiotic-"  
  
"I did take precautions, Alastor."  
  
Moody gave a sarcastic snort of laughter. "Precautions! Against a member of one of the most devious families the Wizarding world has known! And what kind of 'precautions' would those have been, exactly?"  
  
"A Sneakoscope, and Veritaserum. And of course, Arabella was here with me."  
  
Moody glanced enquiringly at Arabella. "Well?"  
  
"Well ... it's feasible. He *could* be genuine."  
  
Alastor made a small sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. "Albus ... are you quite sure you've done the right thing here?" Arabella's expression, he noticed, had become even more impassive than before.  
  
"You weren't there, Alastor. You didn't see the state he was in."  
  
"So you fell for the same old sob-story about a change of heart. Really, Albus!"  
  
Albus sighed. "Fawkes trusted him, Alastor ... and you know Fawkes's judgement."  
  
"Yes, I know Fawke's judgement ... but I also know a thing or two about that family - and they're as nice a bunch of low-down cheating, lying, murderin' bastards as I ever hope to meet in the line of duty." He sighed heavily. "Albus ... let me tell you a little bit of family history."  
  
"I prefer not to judge people by their families, Alastor."  
  
"Well, that's as maybe," Alastor said bluntly. "But you've still got to know."  
  
He glanced between his two companions: Albus, looking shrunken and unhappy; Arabella, remote and thoughtful, her own reactions kept a careful blank.  
  
"The Snapes," he began. "Well, they've been a Slytherin family for generations - long as we've had records, unless I'm much mistaken - though recently there's been an increasing tendency to choose Durmstrang over Hogwarts. And they've been dark Wizards for just as long. Not all of them, maybe, but a large enough proportion to give them two aisles to themselves in the Aurors' archives." He sucked in a hissing breath, and once more glanced between Albus and Arabella.   
  
"Every modern dark uprising, they've had a hand in it," he said with something that sounded like satisfaction. "They were the [only] British family to follow Madam Vasuki in a big way, and then Grindelwald - well, we know of at least four, and I'll bet we didn't get them all. Including, incidentally, your lad's grandfather. They didn't do so well there-" (Arabella gave a tight little smile at that.) "-and after the war, the family started to go downhill. Lots of casualties, and most of the family fortune was confiscated. Your lad's dad went into commerce, and did well. Nothing illegal, they say, but I don't believe in the tooth fairy either. Whatever side of the law he was on, what I've heard about some of his business practices was pretty unethical, if not outright illegal."  
  
"This is all very nice, Alastor dear, but isn't it a little off the point?"  
  
Alastor gave Arabella a sharp look, and flushed slightly. "Give me time, 'Bella, I'm coming to it. Well, by the time Voldemort came out, there was only the one left." A pause, perfectly timed without conscious thought to dramatic effect, and only spoiled a little by Arabella's derisive smile. "Tiberius Caligula, your boy's father. And true to form - well, he was right up there with the first generation of Voldemort supporters - with the likes of Konstantin Dolohov and the Bulstrode twins.  
  
"We didn't pay him a lot of attention at first. You remember - it all started very suddenly, and we simply didn't have the resources to deal with every young Slytherin from a bad family-"   
  
"-And nor should you," Albus said firmly.   
  
"You're being naive again, Albus. The snake may change its skin, but it can't change its heart," Alastor said heavily. Arabella gave him a sudden, tight smile, and he coughed awkwardly. "Present company excepted, of course."  
  
"Of course," Arabella murmured innocently. "If you could resume your fascinating narrative-?"  
  
"Yes. Well. It was three years before we started getting suspicious of old Tiberius, and then it took fully three months to get the evidence. I was in charge of that." Alastor's voice was rueful. "And if I had known ... well, I'd have hauled him in on suspicion immediately, and looked for the evidence later. It'd have been early July 1972 when I got the warrant. Got there and the place was in an uproar. He was dead. Poisoned."  
  
A long silence followed this pronouncement, broken only by the quiet humming of the massed dark detectors behind Alastor's head.  
  
"[Most] interesting," Arabella murmured. "So who-?"  
  
"I'm coming to that," Alastor growled. "We turned that house upside down that day, and we didn't find a thing. Gave up about midnight and turned in, leaving young Bertram Bundy as guard. And that was my second big mistake of the day.  
  
"By morning, he'd had his throat cut - right from ear to ear - and Tiberius's wife had gone. As clear an admission of guilt as if she'd left the bottle in the dustbin. She left her two younger children behind to face the music, too. They'd have been about fourteen and sixteen years old, I believe."  
  
"She [abandoned] them?" Arabella sounded perplexed. "Now that [does] surprise me. When I knew her-"  
  
"It's what happened."  
  
"And how did the children take it?" Albus asked.  
  
Alastor suppressed a sigh. Pitiful. Pitiful and predictable, that Albus would think straight away of the child. "The boy - your Severus - was half frantic. He kept screaming at us that he didn't believe it, that we were lying - even tried to attack a colleague of mine bare-handed. We had to stun him in the end, before he could do himself any damage. His elder brother had walked out on the family a year before after some kind of row. He knew nothing about the whole affair - or so he said. As for the girl-" A pause. Alastor seemed to be choosing his words with care. "Well, she was a wrong 'un, for starters. She was smiling like a cat that got the cream, and revelling in all the commotion. I'd not be surprised if she'd had a hand in helping her ma do the deed."  
  
"But you found no proof."  
  
"No. Never. We never caught up with Kezia Snape, we never got proof of her guilt, we never got any of the children to cooperate with us, we never caught the irregularities in Tiberius's business dealings. The whole thing was an out-and-out failure."  
  
Alastor's voice rang with wounded pride, with all the humorous bitterness of one who tells tales against himself. The words 'And it still rankles' hung unspoken in the air.  
  
"So that's that," he said finally. "That's the kid you've got spying for you. What do you think of him now?"  
  
"No less than I thought of him before. You didn't see him, Alastor. You didn't speak to him. He wasn't like - that."   
  
"You're a trusting man, Albus," Alastor growled. "I've been trying to knock sense into you for years - and so's Arabella - but you've a skull thicker than a troll's and twice as impenetrable."  
  
"Ah! Flattery," Albus said lightly. "I've always considered it one of my finest qualities."  
  
Alastor slumped in his seat, his hands balling into white-knuckled fists. "Arabella," he said, only slightly plaintively. "You knew the case. You tell him."  
  
"I didn't, actually."  
  
"You didn't?"  
  
"You forget, Alastor - this was back in 1972." There was a brittle quality in Arabella's voice that made Albus look sharply at her. "Mulligan died in March, and Barty Crouch was just beginning to assert his authority. Don't you remember all the 'new broom' propaganda? I was already being eased out by July." Arabella hesitated momentarily, looking down at the glasses on her lap. "After all, my record isn't exactly clean, is it?"  
  
"The hell it isn't!" Alastor exploded, rocketing to his feet and leaning his clenched knuckles on the deal-topped desk. "Arabella - Arabella, listen! Mulligan destroyed all those records back in 1945, just after you disappeared - all of them. There is not a *shred* of evidence to connect you with Grindelwald or the Todeskinder." Alastor's voice rose, echoing off the baffles that soundproofed the room so that the harsh German consonants echoed and bounced around the room. "I was there, Arabella. I saw him do it."  
  
There was a sudden deathly silence, and Alastor was caught motionless, hulking over his desk as if he were a raptor, and the table his prey, as if he had been arrested in mid-pounce and suddenly did not know how to proceed. Albus looked from Arabella to Alastor, and then back again, noting how Arabella seemed to have shrunken in her seat until she seemed child-sized, almost lost its huge leather expanse, her narrow shoulders hunched together. The dark detectors seemed suddenly to be terribly, terribly still, as if they too were unsure of themselves.  
  
"There's no need to shout, Alastor," Arabella said, and her voice was quite steady. "It's hardly relevant to the present situation."  
  
Alastor sat down, shamefaced.  
  
"You're right, of course," he muttered. "Shouldn't have brought it up. Ancient history, y'know. Not important."  
  
Albus glanced between them again. Arabella seemed to have regained her poise, and was polishing her glasses with an unusually intent air; Alastor, seated once more behind his desk, was studying very intently the marks his knuckles had made in the leather top of the table, as if they were tea leaves or crystal balls, or some other of the omens he so despised.  
  
Albus glanced between them once more, remembering unbidden one of the so many seemingly arbitrary incidents that had somehow jolted him back to life in the unsettled days followed Grindelwald's fall.  
  
* * *  
  
It had been one of the Hit Wizards who had called for him, a young behemoth named Telemachus Flint whose neck was as broad as his head, striding through the Hospital Wing of the Ministry Building in an attempt to look businesslike and military, but succeeding only in looking uncomfortably out of place. Albus had been sitting up in bed at the time, in a vain attempt to do the Daily Prophet crossword. He had still felt weak and drained, unable even to hold the quill steady long enough to complete the clue. Flint's entry had been a welcome interruption.  
  
"Mister Mulligan requests your presence, sir."   
  
Telemachus was clearly still so new to the job as to eschew all small talk in the line of duty. He had waited motionless while Albus hoisted himself out of the bed and put on the long grey robe that was lying over his chair, while he put on shoes, and argued with the Duty Mediwitch who insisted that he wasn't going anywhere, while a Senior Mediwitch was called to pronounce on whether or not he should be allowed out. He had not even broken his self-imposed silence when Dumbledore had finally been allowed to leave and had begun to walk slowly beside him, along the short corridor that led to Mulligan's office. At the office door he had withdrawn, leaving him there without a word of farewell.  
  
Albus had already raised his hand to knock when he heard voices raised within.  
  
"All of them-!"   
  
"My dear Moody, you are making yourself ridiculous. I assure you, no-"  
  
"All of them, I said. Or I'll do it myself."  
  
Albus had hesitated for a moment, and then pushed the door open, feeling, obscurely, that his presence might be needed.   
  
Moody had his back to him, leaning over Mulligan's desk, and as Dumbledore entered, he saw him slide his wand back inside the pocket of the dark grey trenchcoat he always wore. Then he turned on his heel and left, stalking past Dumbledore as if he had not noticed him.  
  
"Ah. Albus, do sit down."  
  
Mulligan, unusually, had sounded flustered, and his cheeks seemed uncommonly pink. As Albus had sat down he noticed that Mulligan's desk was littered with ashes, and its leather surface was charred and scorched, as if a large quantity of parchment had been burnt there. Mulligan had run his fingers through his had, a surprising, nervous gesture for one who had endured a world war without qualms.  
  
"Albus, has the world gone mad today?" he had asked, his voice slightly peevish."First my finest deep cover operative somehow manages to go AWOL - out of the Ministry's high-security suite, no less - and now this!" he indicated the mess on his desk. "Really, one would think that we had not just ended a major war. What has come over my staff today I do not know." Mulligan's voice had risen slightly slightly, reminding Albus forcibly of an elderly spinster. "Albus, if you plan to take off back to that school of yours, *do* tell me in advance, won't you?"  
  
* * *  
  
He sighed, and returned from his reminiscences. "So," he said, as much to break the silence as anything else. "How do we proceed from here?"  
  
Alastor glanced at him sharply as he spoke. "We have to assume that the data in the letters is known, and plan accordingly," he said thoughtfuly.   
  
"What about Severus? Will that not compromise-?"  
  
"Of course it won't, dear" Arabella said. "All you need do is let it be known that dear Ida was suspicious, and leave it at that. Though it is better," she added severely, "if you can do the thing without letting your suspicions be known."  
  
Alastor had been staring down at the letter again. "The Ministry is my problem," he said at length. "I'll get my colleagues in the Internationals onto it. As to the Ministry's spy - now that we know he exists - well, leave that to me."  
  
"Alastor, dear-"  
  
"I know. It's more your pidgeon than mine, but that can't be helped. Unfortunately most of your old colleagues never took to me."  
  
"Oh, really? And why would that be?" There was a tone of mock innocence in Arabella's voice that almost made Alastor growl, and caused Albus to hide a discreet smile.   
  
"Because I prefer my friends honest. That's why."  
  
"Alastor, dear, which of us was it who accused Albus of being naive again?"  
  
Alastor snorted and looked down, busying himself with sorting the six letters into two neat piles. "As for *your* spy, Albus – well, I strongly advise you to drop him – immediately – but since I doubt I've a hope of persuading you, I'm warning you again. You watch your back with that one. We can't do without you."  
  
Albus nodded, rather more meekly than was his wont. There really was nothing convincing he could have said. His uncertainty rose again, increased exponentially by Alastor's insistence. Had he been mistaken in his judgement? Had young Severus had a hand in Quentin Trimble's death?   
  
"That is all very well, Alastor dear, but we really haven't *got* anyone else."  
  
"Well, that's as maybe - but he's still a Snape. You trust people like that at your own peril."  
  
"Alastor, really! Do you have even the sense you were born with?"  
  
Alastor gave Arabella an irked look, bringing his hand down with more force than was strictly necessary on his desk. "What's the matter now, woman?" he growled.  
  
"All those things he told Albus ... you are remembering, aren't you, that I've not yet found so much as a single inaccuracy in it?"  
  
"Means nothing. You simply haven't found the lies yet."  
  
"So ... you don't mean to investigate any of those alleged Death Eaters," Albus said, sounding more dismayed than Alastor had ever heard him.   
  
"I'm onto it already - but I need proof, don't I? I'm not making any arrests on the word of a Snape."  
  
"Alastor, dear, I'm afraid you're still missing the point here. I told you I hadn't found any inaccuracies in that information."  
  
"Well?"  
  
"Well ..." The glasses came off, a corner of the cardigan was pressed into service to polish their lenses. "Not only is every single veriafiable detail accurate, but of those facts we cannot check, I did not find a single internal discrepancy of the smallest type." A small, tight smile. "You choose your spies well, Albus. This one is uncommonly precise in his facts."  
  
"Your inference being?"  
  
"Well ..." Arabella's hands stilled, the deceptively innocent glasses resting unheeded in her lap. "Either every single contact I possess is in the service of Voldemort, and has been for many many years - and believe me or not, it is a possibility that I am carefully considering - or Albus's spy is telling him the truth, about everything."  
  
"Hmmm. Still. You be careful, Albus. Voldemort would give his eye teeth to have your head on a plate. Make sure that spy of yours isn't playing the traitor with you."  
  
And to that, really, there was nothing left that could be answered.   
  
"Yes, Alastor," Albus said meekly.  
  
  
  
  
  
PERPETRATOR'S NOTE  
  
Okay, this is one of those chapters that the Inner Perfectionist has thrown up its hands in horror about and informed me that I might as well post because it can't suss out where the damn thing's going wrong and is sick of the sight of it. This is not the most sound basis for resurrecting a fic everybody thought was dead and forgotten about.   
  
Incidentally, if anybody's ready this who remembers the posting of the first chapter, I think I'd better thank you for your dedication and patience. On the other hand, if you've just waded through all nine chapters for the first time I also need to thank you ... because you're probably all but square-eyed by now.  
  
On the subject of thanks, they're owed particularly to Winkyteatowel, whose ideas inspired some of the history of the Pince triplets, and who served as a sounding board during the early stages of this chapter.  
  
Chapter 8: ...And your young men shall see visions. That'll be along in due course. We'll be back to Snape there, as he has rather an awkward meeting with a very old friend, and Echo's life begins to go down the toilet. Figuratively, of course. 


	10. and your young men shall see visions

THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS  
  
by Morrighan  
  
  
  
DISCLAIMER: Everything from the Harry Potter books belongs to J K Rowlings. The rest is merely the product of a deranged imagination.  
  
  
  
CENSOR: R.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 10: ...and your young men shall see visions.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Still too slow."  
  
Snape watched critically as Echo stopped, wiping her face daintily on a black lace handkerchief, and looking up at him expectantly. Her wand movements were still indisciplined and wide, taking more space and time at they ought ever to have done. It was a rank beginner's failing - one that most neophytes would have eradicated on their own, long before they were approached by one of the Death Eaters.  
  
They were in the same training hall in which Echo's first lesson had taken place, with its hexagonal paving slabs and high vaulted ceilings, the walls decorated with racks of weapons, and opulent dark green and red velvet wall hangings. The halls always impressed the neophytes with their opulence, and with the racks of varied and cruel-looking weapons that lined the walls, the many torches supported in bright brass braziers. The halls looked like temples. Perhaps, to the Neophytes, they were.  
  
Later, when they had learned more, they would spend more time in the halls below, with their simulated ruined buildings and refuse heaps, muddy fields and ice-covered cobbled streets, with tiny studios set up to simulate the typical magical kitchen or bedroom, and other enclosed spaces in which they might have to work. Echo had been learning for a week now; it would be months, most likely, before she would be ready to progress to one of those other halls. She was still at the stage where her training consisted of constant sparring drills, trying to instill into her the reflexes of a trained fighter, instead of those of a panicky little girl.  
  
The lessons were still on basic duelling techniques, interspersed with short sesssions on other more theoretical matters. None of it, so far, was even secret; they had hardly touched on any of the Dark Arts yet.  
  
Snape began idly flicking out hexes again, watching as Echo moved around, evading some and coutering others. She had, in fact, improved - far more than Snape would have imagined possible - in spite of her appalling technique and extreme lack of initiative. It was even possible, if she continued to study hard, that one day she would make a passably mediocre Death Eater, if not a moderately competent one.  
  
Any other Death Eater would have been relieved.  
  
It was profanity - sheer profanity - that such an inept, incompetent, *pathetic* creature should try to transform herself into a Death Eater. Half of his mind wanted to choke the life out of her for wanting even to attempt it; the other half wanted to hex her for making such a poor attempt at it - while all the time a constant voice at the back of his mind snarled at her to leave, growling, nagging and pleading as if by force of thought alone he could force her change her mind.  
  
But what could he do, exactly? He could hardly persuade her otherwise, unless he planned on dying a slow and painful death.  
  
She had said, when he had been explaining strategy at the start of the lesson, that she didn't think she wanted to kill - that she felt sure she would be able to aid the Dark Lord without ever needing to do so.  
  
Could anybody really be that ignorant?  
  
He had spelt it out to her in simple language, trying to ignore the revulsion she was trying to suppress. To the Death Eaters, killing was more than a convenient weapon. It was a badge of loyalty, even as membership. There were many who, in their way, served the Dark Lord; but the Death Eaters were set apart because they were the ones who were prepared to kill for him. It was their crown, their greatest pride. They had nothing but contempt for those who did not merit the Mark - those who could not, or would not, do so.  
  
It seemed she truly was that ignorant.  
  
[Innocent,] Dumbledore's voice reminded him helpfully. [The word is 'Innocent'. As in 'not guilty'.] Very well, she was innocent. But she could have kept that innocence, and she was choosing to throw it away. Not that there was anything he could do about that.  
  
"Again," he said. "And keep your wand hand closer to your body this time."  
  
* * *  
  
It was not the opening of the door that Snape heard; but from some long- instilled instinct he felt the new draught of air that came as it was opened, even through the thick cloth of his mask.  
  
He knew better than to let himself hesitate. It had been one of Electra's first lessons to him, back when he had been younger than Echo was now - how not to appear startled, no matter what he was doing; and the training held good now. He did, however, allow himself to shift his position slightly, so that his line of fire took in the newcomer if necessary.  
  
Echo did hesitate, though, and look round, her eyes wide and luminously pale in the near darkness.  
  
The figure was standing to the right of the door, directly underneath one of the torches so that its flickering shadows obscured his appearance. He was hooded and masked, unsurprisingly, the cloth of the cloak creased and dusty, the mask faded to an uneven grey. The dancing shadows obscured any closer examination, but Snape could see that he was tall and wide- shouldered. Something about his stance suggested awkwardness, though, as if he had come to ask a favour Snape would not be inclined to grant.  
  
"Yes?" Snape snapped. The momentary wash of fear, borne of the fear of discovery, had passed, and left only annoyance at the intrusion in its wake. [There had better,] he thought, [be a damn good reason for this.]  
  
Silence. The figure spread his hands neutrally, palms down. So he was not prepared to state his business. Fine. He could wait, then.  
  
"Later," Snape said shortly.  
  
The figure nodded, but said nothing. Snape waited an instant to see if he would speak, but the figure had retreated back into silent stillness. Snape turned back to Echo, deliberately turning his back on the watcher. "We shall try that again, including the Verso charm as well this time."  
  
Predictably, the thought of a spectator seemed to rob Echo of whatever competence she had so far attained, so badly that her cheeks were soon riddled with sting-marks. Snape bit back forcibly all the things he wanted to shout at her and glanced at the old-fashioned clock above the door, which included a conventional pair of clock-hands among the circulating constellations and planets. Five minutes to the hour.  
  
"That's enough." In the interests of progress, he thought, it was going to be better to call a halt. "We shall end the lesson here today."  
  
Snape stood back cautiously as Echo gathered up her belongings and prepared to depart, one eye warily on the silent figure by the door. The normally neat ringlets she wore were in sweaty disarray, and her face had gone a shiny pink, pocked in places with the slight pin-pricks of the stinging hex that was used most frequently in the earliest stages of training. She held the wand to them quickly, and Snape watched as they dimmed and faded to nothing.  
  
[You cannot do both,] Mr Ollivander's voice whispered in his ears. [Hexing and healing ... nobody can do both.]  
  
He did not dignify the voice with a reply.  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow then?" Echo asked, a little breathlessly. "Same time?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Er ... goodbye, then."  
  
She obviously expected an answer to that, but Snape said nothing. Echo hesitated for a moment, and then disapparated.  
  
The figure turned its head to watch her go, waiting until it was quite certain that she had fully departed before it came forward, silently in spite of its size. Snape watched closely, scanning the walk for some mannerism he would recognise. The figure was only two yards away when it finally spoke.  
  
"Sev? You spare a mo?"  
  
And Snape froze.  
  
It was a distinctive voice - soft and slow and slightly sleepy, economising on words as if each drowsy syllable had to be conserved like gold. Only one person had a voice like that - or at least only one whom Snape had ever known. As Slytherin supporters had once shouted, unnecessarily, at house Quidditch matches, there was only one Evan Rosier.  
  
Which was ridiculous. Evan had died ignominiously almost a year ago, over some cheap girl who wasn't worth it, and his body had been pulled from the harbour of a dingy Muggle town three days later.  
  
"And who would you be?" he snapped. If this was some kind of off-colour practical joke then the perpetrator would be strung up by his thumbs until the Dark Lord won.  
  
"You know, Sev." The voice had a slight pleading note so like the voice of his recollections. "It's Evan. You remember me, don't you?"  
  
"Oh, so you didn't like it in the Solent, then?"  
  
The figure sighed. "Not me, Sev. Some other guy." The figure hesitated a second, and then, quickly, raised his mask.  
  
It was quite enough to recognise Rosier beyond doubt, more from the bewildered, uncertain expression in the blue eyes than from the guileless face and impossibly bright blond hair. The hair was different now - longer, and shoddily cut, as though Evan had been using one of the hair growing potions, and then tried to cut it himself.  
  
"All right," Snape asked flatly. "Where have you been?"  
  
It was not an intelligent question. Snape fully recognised the fact, but he was momentarily too addled to formulate a better one.  
  
"Busy. You know. Stuff." Rosier shrugged. "Nothing in particular."  
  
"Don't give me that," Snape snarled. "Nobody spends a year dead because they're 'just busy'."  
  
"Yeah well. Deep cover," Rosier muttered. "Not my choice."  
  
Deep cover? Rosier? Of all imaginable people-  
  
"Look, you want to go for a drink?" Rosier asked hurriedly, under his breath, as if that would somehow frustrate the surveillance charms that were doubtless in operation. "Reckon I owe you a pint by now."  
  
"I doubt that."  
  
"Don't get angry, Sev. Not my fault." Rosier drew in a deep breath and paused, searching for words. "When the Dark Lord calls you, you don't hang back. And when he calls you for something big ... you do it." A long sentence, for Rosier. Snape had almost forgotten that habit of his, his long thoughtful pauses followed by phrases of quite incongruous eloquence, before lapsing back to his customary half-sentences.  
  
But there was something new in Evan's voice, something that was more than the sum of old habits of speech. Something almost proud, as if he had gained a self-confidence that had always eluded him before. Whatever the task had been, Evan was clearly confident that he had done it well. "C'mon, Sev. We can't talk here. Black Stag do you?"  
  
Snape gave in. For some reason he always did, when Rosier asked him. "Saloon bar, if you must."  
  
He removed his own mask and pushed back his hood, pocketing the black scrap of fabric carefully, glancing down absently to ensure that his robes were plain enough to attract no notice.  
  
"Ready?" Rosier mumbled. He nodded and they were gone.  
  
* * *  
  
Rosier put the two tankards down on the table and sat down.  
  
It was a typical weekday evening in a Wizarding pub - hushed and smoky, designed more for talk than drinking, not so busy that he'd not been able to find an empty table in one of the many alcoves that dominated up the saloon bar. The only other wizards nearby were deeply engaged in a noisy game of Demonic Dominoes, and were hardly minded to listen into a quiet conversation at the next table, but by the time he'd returned with the drinks, the walls were still glistening with enough privacy charms for the entire Department of Mysteries.  
  
"They only do nettle beer," he said, trying to ignore the greasy touch of the charms as he walked through them. "That do you?"  
  
Snape made a slight gesture which could have meant anything, so Rosier set the tankard down carefully on a beer mat, and then his own, lowering himself slowly onto the padded leather bench as he examined Snape covertly, where he sat in the shadowed back of the alcove.  
  
It had been - what? - it had only been a year, but Sev seemed to have aged visibly in his absence. He looked thinner, more haggard, his pure-black eyes more bewilderingly expressionless. Maybe the others were right. Maybe he was heading for the skids.  
  
Rosier couldn't quite believe it. Not of Sev.  
  
"So," he said, picking up his tankard and taking a single mouthful of butterbeer. "How've you been?"  
  
"Fine," Snape said flatly. He did not touch his own tankard.  
  
"You still with Skowers and that?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Another flat syllable. Rosier sighed inwardly. It didn't look like Sev was about to make anything easy for him. The hell with small talk, he decided. Sev never had been any good at it anyway.  
  
"I spoke to the others last night," he said, dropping his voice in spite of the privacy shields around them. Snape would hardly need to ask 'which others'. "They think you're falling out of favour."  
  
Wilko had sidled up to him, just as he had been about to leave, talking out of the corner of his mouth. "I'd think twice," he'd said sideways, "about contacting Sev if I was you. He may be one of the elite now, but- ". He had drawn a finger across his throat at that, grinning ghoulishly. Rosier had simply stared at him in distaste.  
  
"Just Felix," Snape said dismissively, "up to his usual.  
  
"He know something," Rosier said uncertainly, "About you, I suppose. And you moving to training..."  
  
"Medical reasons," Snape snapped. "Ask Electra. Ask anyone. He can ask the Master himself for all I care. I'll be back in the field in a month anyway."  
  
Rosier spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. "Okay, okay, I get you," he said easily. "You mind out, though. Virgil's the only one of that lot would take his foot off your head if you were drowning."  
  
The old Slytherin catchphrase almost provoked a smile from Snape. Almost.  
  
* * *  
  
The cobbles felt different, somehow, under the soles of Echo's newly- acquired flat-soled shoes.  
  
Nobody can be sure-footed enough to run or fight in those, Gamaliel had said, scornfully, looking at her kitten-heeled shoes at her second lesson; and so she had been out and bught a pair of the kind of shoes she had sworn she'd never wear - flat-soled and unobtrusive, making her shorter than she ever remembered being. She was not tall, she knew, unlike her sister, but these shoes made her feel tiny and insignificant, and more dowdy than any woman should ever be.  
  
She'd enchanted them immediately, to make no sound and leave no footprint. Gamaliel had looked ar them and muttered what might have been a word of praise, and the following evening she had cast the same charm on the plain black robe she had bought in her lunch hour at work.  
  
Nobody could say she was not making an effort.  
  
Gamaliel had changed somewhat, after that horrible first session. He'd not become more lenient - no, that was not the word - but perhaps less harsh. He had asked her today, "Is that what you really want?" because she had shown squeamishness at the idea of killing in the Dark Lord's serice. He still despised her - that was clear - but he had asked it neutrally, without the sarcasm or scorn he had showed in that first lesson. It had not sounded like a rhetorical question.  
  
It had almost made her feel as though she had had a choice. She didn't, of course, but for a few seconds there had been the illusion that her destiny was still in her own hands. But nobody else had ever tried to ask - they had been too busy tring to transform her into what they felt she ought to be, as if she were nothing more than pliable clay to them.  
  
Her parents - well, she supposed they had been doing what they had known was best for her, but it had been clear that she had always fallen short of what they had expected of her, no matter how hard she had tried. And Narcissa had done so much for her, but she always asked so much, things that Echo hardly knew how to give. Even her lover - that had all gone sour so quickly. After the first month when it had been Virgil this and Virgil that, he had quickly become just another set of constant demands, like her sister and her parents. He had never asked her that, not in all the last three years they had been together.  
  
Gamaliel ... who is he, she wondered. It sounded like the name of an angel ... a dark angel swathed in black who stalked through the huge halls with a walk both graceful and predatory. He was dangerous, but it was a beautiful danger, that moved as smothly as a striking snake. She wondered if she would recognise him, if she saw him unmasked.  
  
His shoulders were narrow - she could discern that even beneath the enveloping robe - his arms too, for all that he seemed so strong. His hands were always gloved, but even though the black gloves they seemed thin and delicate, made for precision rather than for power.  
  
What was it to him what her wishes were?  
  
She had somehow reached her front door by now, and unlocked it absently, her mind still on Gamaliel's blank mask, and pushed it open.  
  
"Where have you been?"  
  
Virgil was standing framed in her doorway, staring down at her with livid eyes. Echo flinched and stepped back involuntarily, but he had already seized her wrist and dragged her into her flat, slamming the door shut behind her.  
  
"Where have you been?" he snarled again. " I've been waiting for you for two hours."  
  
Echo said nothing. Her excuses had been prepared long before, but those had been for casual enquiries, not for Virgil, who knew her habits far too well to be deceived by any such reasons. She was suddenly very conscious of her flushed face and disarranged hair, and the sheen of sweat that still covered her cheeks. She knew all too well how he would interpret it.  
  
"Tell me."  
  
Echo tried to speak, but her voice seemed to have been misplaced. [A failure so soon,] her sister's voice reminded her silently. She managed a squeak, but nothing more.  
  
Virgil stepped forward, and Echo instinctively retreated, her back coming to rest against the pastel-green living room walls. He stepped forward, leaning his face close to hers. "What have you been doing?" he hissed.  
  
Echo said nothing; she could feel her heart ricocheting about her chest. Virgil pulled the bag roughly from her hand and opened it, spilling its incriminating contents onto the floor. The books came spilling: Malleus Maleficus, Dunkles Hexenhandbuch, A Philosophie of Cursinge. Virgil looked at them lying on the floor, stirring them with the toes of his shoes so that he could make out each title clearly.  
  
"Oh," he said softly. "So you've been playing games with the dark boys, have you? Well, well." [Playing games]. He gave the words an inflection that was undeniably filthy.  
  
"It's not what you think," Echo said, a little too quickly.  
  
"So what is it, then? Come on! I want some answers."  
  
"Some friends of my sister's. They promised they'd teach me to defend myself."  
  
"With Malleus Maleficus as their starting-point, I suppose. You expect me to buy that?"  
  
"It's true," Echo said breathlessly.  
  
"You think I'm stupid, don't you?" Virgil jabbed her hard in the chest with his forefinger. "I know what you like in bed. I bet you thought you'd join in some of tne games the dark boys play, didn't you?" He jabbed her again, but this time she did not flinch away. "You're mine, and don't you forget it. You don't cross me with other men. I expect you *here* when I want you. Do you understand?"  
  
Echo nodded, speechless. She stilll couldn't manage to form coherent words.  
  
"Good. Then don't forget it." He swung on his heel and turned away from her. "Thanks to you, I've got to get back to Amelia and the brats now. You mess me about again I'll show you what the real dark boys get up to. And you won't like it at all."  
  
He turned on his heel and disapparated, flicking his wand perfunctorily as he did so.  
  
* * *  
  
"Tea, Severus?"  
  
They were in what appeared to be an uncommonly large garden shed, wooden save for a stone fireplace at one end, over which a large kettle sat. Snape watched as Dumbledore pottered around the fire, setting out cups and lifting the whistling kettle from the flames, an incongruously innocent figure among all the Dark Detectors that lined the room.  
  
"No. Thank you."  
  
Snape glanced out of the window for the second time. It was dark outside, and the bare branches of a tree knocked against the window. They were thin and spindly, swaying wildly too and fro, and Snape identified the tree tentatively as a silver birch. He had been brought by portkey; he could be anywhere, even in another country. He speculated for a moment whether it might be Finland, and then ceased his wonderings, angry with himself. Better to remain in ignorance. He was not so stupid as to find himself information for the Dark Lord.  
  
Dumbledore continued to potter around, and then presented him with a cup of tea anyway, a thin tawny brown unalleviated by milk or sugar, the way Snape had always drunk it. Snape glanced at it, and then ignored it, watching instead Dumbledore, as the old Wizard seated himself opposite him.  
  
"So how is it going, Severus?" It could have been any kind of casual enquiry - friendly and sociable, and quite abhorrently aimiable.  
  
"What do you want to know?" Snape asked bluntly.  
  
Dumbledore sighed slightly. "No more than what I need to know."  
  
"There's nothing to tell," Snape said sullenly. "They've put me to work in the training wing, training up a particularly ignorant neophyte. It's not exactly the place to hear gossip."  
  
Dumbledore said nothing, merely raising his eyebrows slightly and clasping his hands in his lap, with a manner that made it clear that he was waiting for Snape to speak. It occurred to Snape for the first time that he had so far made no effort to seek out information for Dumbledore, that he had stayed where he was and waited for the facts to come to him.  
  
He was reminded suddenly how much he would have despised any Death Eater who was so passive about information-gathering. Had be been gathering information for the Dark Lord he would have returned with reams of parchment with him: annotated maps, old newspaper articles - even, sometimes, from the Muggle press - and page upon page of notes. But no - he had returned with nothing. He had taken no risks and won no knowledge. It was hardly surprising that he would have to endure Dumbledore's disappointment.  
  
He glanced involuntarily towards the Headmaster, and found him gazing steadily at him, meeting his eyes with calm impassivity.  
  
"You will find your way," he said casually, as if he were merely giving Snape directions to the Owl Office. "Sometimes these things take a while, you know."  
  
Disturbing, to know the extent of his own transparency. [Not a good attribute in a spy,] some inner part of him muttered wryly. Or could Dumbledore read minds? That would be all he needed.  
  
"Very well," he said shortly, and began to outline, in short, factual phrases, the events of the last few weeks. There was pitifully little of it, mostly insignificant. Dumbledore listened thoughtfully to him until he had finished, and then began to prompt him with questions.  
  
"So ... this young trainee of yours," he said at length. "You say she is an incompetent."  
  
Not just an incompetent; worse than an incompetent. "Yes."  
  
"In what way?"  
  
"She is ... not an appropriate Death Eater," Snape said carefully. "She knows nothing of the black arts, and has interest in them or desire to use them. She has joined for fear of upsetting her sister."  
  
He let a sneer enter his voice at that., but Dumbledore let it pass without comment.  
  
"Her sister. Narcissa Malfoy, I suppose. And does she want to leave?"  
  
"How should I know? She stays from her cretinous sense of duty to her family. She probably does not even think she has a choice in the matter."  
  
"Severus," Dumbledore said gravely. "This young lady - what is she to you?"  
  
"Nothing," Snape said vehemently, though Dumbledore could not help but notice that he had gone very pale. "A mewling, whining, insignificant, pathetic little creature - a total waste of space." He drew in a laboured breath, sucking the air in through gritted teeth. "But she's not a Death Eater. Not yet."  
  
"Severus, I understand how you feel, but-"  
  
"I very much doubt that." The anger that had burned so hot mere moments before now suddenly burned cold. "If you gave me a year, I could turn her into everything a Death Eater ought to be." Not quite true. Perhaps a year for a normal recruit; longer, unquestionably, for someone like Rathbone. "It's what we're good at, headmaster. We take unruly, undisciplined children, and we remould them into what we wish them to be. It's our habits that form us, Headmaster. You're a teacher - you should know that. Would you have me give her the habits and skills of a Dark witch?"  
  
"You know that I would not, Severus," he said gravely. "But be that as it may, Miss Rathbone's choices are her own. if the young lady does not wish to leave the Death Eaters, there really is nothing we can do. It is not our place to force our own choices on others against their wills."  
  
"So I am to do nothing, and concentrate on making her into battle-fodder."  
  
"*No*, Severus. Do not put words into my mouth." Dumbledore sounded suddenly angry, and Snape felt a guilty pang of satisfaction at having goaded him to it. "You cannot persuade her without placing yourself in grave danger, or arousing her suspicions, and nor can you force her into a decision she has not chosen." He stopped, and surveyed Snape closely over the top of his glasses. "But that does not mean that you are helpless. You are still able to make her aware of the consequences of the choice she is about to make - and the fact that she has the power to decide otherwise. You can do this, Severus - I know that you can."  
  
Easy enough to say; but she knew the consequences already, and they revolted her. That wasn't the problem. It was that she was too pathetic and passive even to take control of her own life. You would think that she expected other people to control her, Snape thought moodily.  
  
"Will that be all?" he asked sullenly. "Because I ought to get back."  
  
He paused, leaning over to poke the fire until shards of sparks cascaded over the crumbling logs in the grate. "Not quite, Severus. I still need to know more this raid on Trimble."  
  
"What is there to tell? He gave no information when I was there except the papers you have already. He may have said more later. What can I tell you but that?"  
  
"It is not normal, surely, for a Death Eater to leave before a raid has been completed?"  
  
"No." A single blunt syllable. [You know damn well it is not,] Snape told him silently.  
  
"And why did you in this case?"  
  
The question was asked lightly and reasonably, and hardly deserve the stony silence with which Snape responded to it. He stared down at his tea cup, running his finger absently along the rim of the saucer. He looked up, and saw only kindly concern on Dumbledore's face, and felt himself become suddenly, unreasonaby, angry.  
  
"All right," he said savagely, "So you really want to know what happened? Well, I"ll tell you then." He took a deep breath and regarded Dumbledore with loathing. "I panicked. Is that what you wanted to hear? I was about to use the Cruciatus Curse on him, and I lost my head and just stood there. They sent me back in disgrace for that, giving me the letters to deliver to Voldemort. So I copied them and sent the copies to you. Then they dumped me in the training unit until they're satisfied that I'm reliable enough for them again. Satisfied?"  
  
"Thank you, Severus." The Headmaster fell silent, leaving Snape glaring at him, holding onto his anger as if that was all he had left. There was something unreadable in Dumbledore"s eyes, something Snape couldn't fathom at all. It looked almost like relief - but that was hardly likely.  
  
"I must confess I had suspected you of involvement in his death. Let me offer you my apologies."  
  
Snape laughed harshly. "I *was* involved - I was there, wasn't I? I did nothing to prevent it. Save your trust for someone who merits it, Headmaster."  
  
"Severus, I don't think you quite appreciate what the consequences of your intervention were yet. You gave us a warning - that was what I asked of you. The rest was up to us. Did you think it was coincidence that Myra Trimble and her children were staying with her mother in County Armagh? We *did* try to take precautions, for those we deemed at risk."  
  
"What good does it serve? It was Trimble we were after - and we killed him. He was the one that mattered."  
  
"Perhaps so. But can you tell what his sons may one day be?"  
  
"I don't need to know this," Snape hissed, feeling his hands bunch themselve unbidden into fists. "Headmaster, you should not tell me any-"  
  
"I think, in this case, that you do."  
  
"How can that help me?" He stared wildly at Dumbledore. "Headmaster, tell me *nothing.* What you tell me I can betray. I am a Death Eater. You would be a fool to give me weapons against you."  
  
"You are my spy, Severus, and I trust you."  
  
Did he know? Did he even suspect how great a burden trust could be? Was that his game - to use his trust to keep Snape obedient?  
  
"You would be stupid to do anything of the kind. Remember this, Headmaster: the whole time I was there, Headmaster, I wanted to kill him. I wanted mine to be the wand that struck him down. And you know what? I could so easily have done it."  
  
"But you did not. That is what is import-"  
  
"Don't give me that," Snape snarled angrily. "Do you think my self- discipline - or my remorse - will hold out forever? Because I don't. I"m a time-bomb, Headmaster, a walking time-bomb."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
PERPETRATOR'S NOTE:  
  
My, we are an optimist today, aren't we?  
  
Thanks to The Dink for her inspired feedback & info about cults, and to Winkyteatowel for helping me with the title of the German dark magic book.  
  
The next ep is a short little interlude set at Skowers. Lots of failed potions, frantic wizards and Snape being quite gloriously sarcastic to all and sundry. 


End file.
